Pages From My Notebook

2012-01-17T01:02:00.000-05:00

“If you knew your history, Then you would know where I'm coming from,And you wouldn't have to ask me, who the H... do I think I am.” Robert Nesta Marley in Buffalo Soldier

The turn of the century, the one before the one we just had, is referred to by historians as the “nadir” of Black history. To the rest of us that means it was the worst period for Black people since the end of slavery. This was the period where White people mailed post cards picturing women and children grinning beneath Southern tree's strange fruit. This was the period in time when Black Americans were generations deep in being American but still generations from being legally allowed to be American. Think for a minute how that would feel. In 1900 the principal of Jacksonville Florida's largest public school wrote a poem. The school was the largest because it was for Black kids, Florida had a lot of those, but Florida did not have a lot of schools for “them”. The poem was to commemorate Abraham Lincoln's birthday and a visit to the school by Booker T. Washington. A few years later the poem became a song, and the song soon became an anthem. People over time sang it in churches, on busses, while marching, and in prisons. The song has words of hope, of liberty, of God, and patriotism. Patriotism. A Black song in 1900; patriotic. In or around 1812, America was attacked. From the vantage point of a ship in the harbor, a poet wrote a poem that then became a song, and later an anthem. At that time Black people were 3/5ths a person and 100% percent property. As American's first put hand over heart and sang of bright stars and broad stripes, they did not intend that the song would be for Black people, because “those” weren't Americans. It took more than one hundred years to change that. During those hundred years there was that other song. During those hundred years there were nooses, blowtorches, marches, murders, legislation, military occupation, sit-ins, speeches, there were tears and there was music. “God of our weary years, God of our silent tears, Thou who has brought us thus far on the way, Thou who hast by thy might, led us into the light, Keep us forever on the path, we pray,” were the principals words way back then. Later they were also the words that opened the prayer that followed a Black man raising his hand to be the leader of all Americans. Times change. Times change but human nature does not. Neither does history. These truths, together, next to each other, make up what, and who, we collectively are. Who makes up this “we” is important. Are we a “we” yet? When the White we learns that there is a Black national anthem, how do we react? When the Black we realizes the younger half doesn't know the song, how do we react? When we realize “we” aren't, do we react at all?

For Your Consideration

2011-07-05T11:57:00.001-04:00

Now that the festivities on the fourth are done and the celebration gives way to recuperation, may I offer something for your consideration?

Imagine for a moment the year is 1776 and you are black. You are owned by a white man, a rich white man. He is riding off to fight for independence from England. He has fully embraced the idea of freedom and liberty and an individual’s right to determine their own destiny. He has not offered you your freedom and has taken certain steps to ensure you don’t try to gain it yourself in his absence.

How important would the fourth of July be to you?

Let’s skip forward a few years.

You are still black, but free and living inPhiladelphia, maybe New York. War has begun with the southern states which are fighting to retain the right to own your people as slaves. The white people around you argue over what they are fighting for, retaining the Union or freeing the slaves. Either way, you still aren’t allowed to worship with, go to school with, join the labor guild, or live in the same area as all these lighter skinned Americans. Even the unpopular immigrants, Irish and Italians, don’t appear to like you. They are coming over in droves.

How would you feel about America as you watch these newcomers become naturalized citizens, who then riot at the idea of a draft to go fight for black people’s freedom?

Soon the whole world is at war.

Germany keeps invading other countries and declaring themselves superior. You, a black person watch as the whole country marches off to stamp out the evils of Nazi racism and protect the freedoms of not just America, but the world. Meanwhile a law was passed saying you can vote, yet you still aren’t allowed to do so. You can’t testify in court against a white person, no matter who that white person is or what they have done, you still can’t join the unions or go to the same school as the white people, and all the police are white.

In such a situation what might you think when the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor?

Then we go off to fight in Asian countries. We do so to protect against the freedom squelching powers of communism. Thousand upon thousands of American soldiers are shipped thousands of miles away to defend the relative freedom of citizens of Korea and Vietnam. Meanwhile you, remember you are black, still can’t send your kids to the good public school, ride in the front of the bus, join the union, see a white doctor, or live next door to a white person. Did I mention you still live in Philadelphia? A bunch of folks from all over are heading south on Greyhound buses and they are getting beaten senseless. The Police don’t protect them because they are the ones doing the beating.

How, with all this in mind, would you feel about America?

Would you be justified in being angry?

Would it make sense that you lack pride in these United States?

Might you resent this country and its promises applied to all except you and yours?

Maybe.

Lets consider how black people have reacted historically (go back to being white again). In the Revolution black people signed up to fight. There was a hope that freedom and liberty would one day trump the slave system.

In the civil war black people lobbied and pushed for the right to fight for the north, and once allowed, did so with vigor.

In the World Wars, black people enlisted. Knowing they would be relegated to being cooks and porters, they still enlisted to go fight for other’s freedom. Many even enlisted in foreign regiments to be able to fight. They did not relinquish their American identity, but had to join a foreign force to be allowed to defend home. They did defend it.

While the law would not defend black people at home, they were still drafted to go to Southeast Asia. They fought and died just like the white men.

All throughout American history black people have answered America’s call. From it’s inception, American’s with ancestral roots in Africa have stood up for the Star Spangled Banner and put their lives on the line.

Who can compete with this brand of patriotism? What group of people has better earned a right to complain or voice opinion on national matters? Most of all, who am I, a non military serving white boy from a solid middle class home, to ever cast doubt on the motivations or loyalties of these “others”?

On this, the day after our nation’s birthday, maybe we can think a little about where we have been and where we are now.

God Bless America and all those who call her home.

Are You a Racist Admiral Cod? Let's Talk.

2011-05-26T07:59:00.001-04:00

There are on these interwebs, all sorts of folks. A free and open forum for which I advocate. You are free to say as you please, as am I. Because I am free to speak, I would like to bring up my good buddy Admiral Cod.

Once upon a time he would leave pleasant comments on my posts. He saw my site fit enough to list me on his blogroll. I would comment on his site from time to time, if I felt I had something to offer.

Then one day it stopped. It’s hard to pinpoint when or why. Let me forward some guesses.

Was it when I mentioned the taint of slavery on American historical locations?

Was it perhaps when I posted a picture of my wife?

Possibly it was my exposing myself as a teetotaler, or was it that one post you did. You know, the one where you stopped “approving” or posting my comments? You remember the post right? The one where you posted a video clip of an old movie where the English stave off a final attack by the savage Africans. You approved a comment by some chap who lamented that we cannot treat our modern “brown menace” in like fashion. I pointed out that letting such racially negative comments to go unanswered was bad form. To which your response was… nothing. You would not post my comment nor respond to my email.

I let it go. Some times things are best left alone. But yesterday you were at it again. I have looked around and find your site listed on other sites blogrolls, you list some fine ones yourself, and the extent to which your rants go unanswered, or even defended, concerns me. Hats off to the young man at Sartorially Inclined. You posted his concern, but again not mine. Who’s else do you delete?

Here is what you wrote http://admiralcod.blogspot.com/2011/05/harry-potter-and-race-replacement_24.htmlHere is what I wrote:

Racial acceptance is not a zero sum game. Perhaps the “others” are not welcome to you, but to assume your opinions are held by all is more than presumptuous.

You infer, and this is by no means the first time, that the decline of society as you see it, is hastened by the presence and or acceptance of minorities. You claim superiority in your Anglophile ways that is obviously tied to whiteness as you see it.

How sad.

You may think the proper order of the world, right side up as you put it, has whites at the top and others below, how do you propose this to happen?

What are you advocating or predicting?

Why, and this is more important, do you think this is the way it should be?

You portray yourself as cultured and learned, but this is simple ignorance.

No… I was wrong. You are neither simple nor ignorant, perhaps something worse.
Maybe it was I who was out of line.

So… was I?

Trick-or-tre... never mind

2010-10-31T19:41:00.003-04:00

So the Mrs. and our daughter are handing out candy. A lady and her kids skip our house.
Our daughter calls after them that we do have candy for them. They ignore her. Our blonde neighbor hears the shouting, comes outside (our doors are less than 1 foot away from each other)and shouts after them that she has candy.

The lady came back, took candy from our neighbor, silently looked at my wife and daughter, then silently ushered her kid away... still not taking candy from my wife.

My neighbor was in shock with none of her usual excuse making and explaining things away.

Happy Halloween.

Brohammas Goes into the Fields to Find the “Angry Black Man” and Instead Finds Wayne Bennett

2010-09-10T09:16:00.002-04:00

http://field-negro.blogspot.com/
There is a blog out there in the digital landscape where race is discussed openly. Names are called, fingers are pointed, and oft times naughty words are written. Sounds like my kind of place, except for the naughty words of course.

One should know that this is not the normal race baiting sort of forum. It is not the land of David Duke or even Farrakhan, but a place where things are looked at logically, pragmatically, frankly, and sometimes surprisingly fairly. What sets this place apart is that punches are never pulled, no matter who is getting punched. White, black, cops, lawyers, accused, and acquitted, all may find themselves targeted if the author deems it justified. This brings us to the author.

Any writer who will entertain my inserting Bob Marley quotes where they don’t belong merits my affection and this blogger not only allowed but occasionally encouraged them. Interesting. Through repeated reading I realized this blogger was local to myself, or possibly the other way around, so I decided to pull back the curtain and see who was running the machine.

I embarked on this fact finding venture unsure of what I might find, or rather, how my inquiries would be received. I, a devoutly religious white man raised in the heart of Republicanism, was arranging to sit down with a man who titles his blog in homage to a Malcolm X quote, and regularly rants against religion itself in his writings. This could go very badly… if I were meeting with someone else. I found the “Field Negro” to be decidedly friendly.

We met at Moriarty’s, an Irish Pub downtown, for lunch. He chose the place, possibly as a nod to my pastiness, but more likely due to proximity to his place of employ. You see, Wayne Bennett is not a professional blogger, he is a lawyer. He works for the Family Division of Philadelphia’s First Judicial District, “Support Master” being his official title. To the uninitiated this is pretty much a family court judge. He has the pleasure of listening to cases of child support, custody, and any other sort of domestic disagreement that progresses to litigation. How fun. He explained all this to me while waiting for the waitress to bring him his salad. I had some sort of meat sandwich that was decidedly less healthy. Our meal was not large, nor hard to eat, yet the time it took us to finish lunch was impressive. I would say how long but I would hate to cast doubt on Mr. Bennett’s dedication to the people of Philadelphia.

He, like I, is not a native of this fine city. He was raised in a respected Jamaican family where the likes of Mr. Marley were not simply listened to, but met; hence his allowing my itations to be entertained. He left the island to attend the University of Alabama on a track scholarship. Upon graduation he took a good job in California and began to enjoy life. As can often be the case when one is enjoying themselves, family stepped in to shake things up. Mr. Bennett’s uncle, a barrister, thought his nephew should be more like himself, and told him to attend law school. Which he did, at LSU. (I am thinking of convincing Bennett to attend my alma matter so we can get a national football championship, they seem to follow him.) Graduation, a job fair in Atlanta, and a phone call from a politician, landed Wayne Bennett in Philadelphia. Now we knew each other, our meals had arrived and been half eaten, and then we began to talk.

I was not present at Obama’s beer summit with Professor Gates and Officer Crowley, but I have no doubt it was not as productive as was ours at the pub. The two of us, assumed to be polar opposites, both love this city. He loves that it is close to both NYC and DC, has a small town feel in a big city, and that he can visit a neighborhood and know he will find black people, white people, Italians or Poles.

I like that I can eat somewhere other than Applebee’s.

I tend to talk too much.

When I asked him to tell me the one best reggae song ever, he gave me a list of eight.
His wife does not read his blog; neither does mine.

We were into some ground breaking stuff here. Lunches like ours are not completely unheard of, but lunches with those of our respective demographics do not discuss the topic I brought up next. I asked him why he blogs about race.

“People are dishonest about race. I wanted to have the real conversation,” was his answer. He believes that thanks to the computer, and people’s propensity to hide behind them, individuals finally feel they can speak freely. He has created a forum where they do.

He sees the black community as running in place. “Things are surely not as bad as they were 20 years ago, but we aren’t going anywhere. It’s the same old, same old.” I expressed a more dour view. I asked him why it seemed so many young black men were falling behind in Philadelphia.

In his animated way he told me a story along these lines:

“When I first started hearing cases I would get all these divorced families where Mom works some fast food job, dad works construction, and they spend thousands of dollars a month to send their kids to private school (I knew exactly of what he spoke as he described perfectly my whole neighborhood). The Dad would consistently be unable to keep up the child support payments and hence find himself standing before the bench. I used to think all these folks were sending their kids to private catholic schools to keep them away from black people (which knowing these people would not surprise me). But when I started to look more into it I saw how bad the schools were and realized that maybe this wasn’t racism but that these folks simply cared about their child’s education. Racism wasn’t the issue; it was that we need to do something about these schools.”

He contrasted this with how many limos he sees at high school graduations. “Since when was graduating from high school such a big deal? You haven’t done anything yet? Why is the bar so low?”

I asked him if race still matters. He said, “of course, but its class too. Hey, even rich black people hate poor black people.”

We talked well past the check. I was sitting at the table of a black man who blogs about racism as a way to unwind and relax from the work day, (what a way to relax, right?) and he made me feel completely comfortable. He was not angry; not even grumpy. In fact I rather liked the guy and he had the sort of demeanor that whether true or not, would make others think he liked them too.

He insisted on picking up the tab and we wrapped up lunch with the conversation feeling unfinished. Funny that as a reader of his blog, one might think the world of race relations spinning into a black hole, but having lunch with the author was the bright spot of my week.
There is hope for us yet.

Robert E' Lee's Slave

2010-07-19T13:37:00.008-04:00

I once wrote, on another blog, a short piece that was slightly critical of Robert E. Lee and his fighting to defend slavery. Turns out even insinuating any flaw in Mr. Lee is almost as dangerous as me writing about black women’s hair.

A comment responding to my blog disturbed me to the point that I did not reply. Not till now at least. The commenter told a story about Robert E. Lee’s manservant who even after the surrender at Appomattox, stayed faithfully by Lee’s side.

The story of Lee’s slave was new to me, but the type of story was not. It is the sort of tale, or detail rather, that has led me to detest “Gone with the Wind” and made me almost incapable of having a reasonable discussion with most armchair historians displaying a southern lean.

If I may, let me respond now.

Tales of faithful slaves or loyal black people dot the landscape of southern histories. Some are true, some are not. One cannot say two words relating the War of Northern Aggression to slavery, or criticize the Confederate flag, without one of these tales, most likely a tale of a black confederate soldier, being immediately thrown back in defense. To this I simply say, “Are you serious?”

Sadly that is completely rhetorical and a bit inflammatory, as I know good and well that they are. These stories, or even historical accounts, of the happy Negro exist and most white people take them at face value as proof that we cannot judge historical values through our modern lenses. The stories are used to show that things weren’t really all that bad, and in some ways were even better. You see, the races, black and white, got along better back then. We even loved and cared for each other. Our children played together, black women nursed white children, and soldiers of each race even fought and died together. Obviously the “peculiar institution” was not as bad as we may think, and historical figures like Lee should not be judged so harshly.

How short sighted.

To read these accounts and come to these conclusions is to make simpletons of all black people and displays a complete ignorance of black realities. These tales do not show that things weren’t as bad as we think but rather display how much worse they really were.

Let’s look at the example of Lee’s manservant, Rev William Mack Lee. A short history of his life was published in 1918.

Rev Lee, who was by this time quite old, was touring the countryside to raise money to fund the building of his church. In his story he tells how he was born on the General’s plantation and stayed loyally by his side throughout the war. He told how all the slaves on Lee’s plantation were freed ten years before the war but all stayed put till after the fighting ended. The autobiography goes on to tell how the Rev. stayed by Lee’s side till the old General passed away, at which time Lee left $360 for the Rev. to “educate himself.”

William wrote: “At the close of the war I did not know A from B…I went to school. I studied hard at the letter, but my greatest learning came from Jesus Christ”.

So, at face value we have a former slave who was freed by his master but stayed with him. Years after his old masters death he is still singing his praises. Not only singing, but thanks to the generosity of the old master he is also writing and preaching. What a great man this master must have been.

Or maybe he was just great in comparison to all the other white people William knew. An oft ignored aspect of life in the mid 1800’s and earlier, is that just because a state, or a group, opposed slavery, one cannot assume those states or groups actually liked or accepted black people. In fact the popular proposal of those who opposed slavery was that black people should all be shipped back to Africa. Some even did just that, founding the country of Liberia.
A black person, who somehow attained freedom, was in no way guaranteed rest and peace. More likely a freed slave was now tossed into an open market that did not want and often would not allow, black participation. An appreciation for the difficulty and outright persecution faced by free black people would lead us to look closer at the choices historical black characters made.
Some chose to stay put, like those on Lee’s plantation. A benevolent master, who didn’t beat you, at least not that much, may have been a safer bet than the rabble beyond the plantation gates. More telling yet, was that knowing the scorn the outside society held in store, many, many, chose to risk life and try for freedom.

General Lee appreciated William's education so much that he financed it. How nice. But then again, if it was truly important, why didn't he educate Mr. William Lee himself rather than through a gift in his will? It seems many a gracious slave owner was mostly only gracious after his death.

The Civil War, with its Northern Armies marching through the heart of the south gave the biggest opportunity for slaves to flee the farm for freedom. Rev. William Lee did not. It may have been his loyalty to that great man, or could it also have possibly been that to stand next to Robert E. Lee was also to stand next to the very military might of the confederacy. There is a famous tale, the one retold to me by the commenter, of how directly following the surrender at Appomattox, Gen. Lee retired to his tent and did not reemerge for the space of a day. All the while William Lee sat loyal watch outside the tent without moving.

Might I inquire where he would have gone?

If I were a black man standing in the middle of 8,000 armed soldiers who had just been in the business of killing others to defend their right to own a black person, many of their closest friends having died in the process, and who have just received notice that they lost the war; I might just sit still on a stool counting the seconds till one of these men finds a convenient target on whom to express his frustration. I could either run out into the midst of these heart broken sharp shooters, or I could stick close to the side of the one who may protect me or at least someone who appreciated my services. One may think I could run to the Union troops, they aren’t so far away; but then again how am I to know that those Union soldiers like black people? Truth is many union soldiers resented black people due to the fact that they saw themselves fighting and dying for a whole race of people they saw as inferior and best kept away from themselves and their women. To automatically assume that I would stay put simply out of devotion is to ignore everyone else and everything around me.

Of course I was not there. I did not know either of the Lees in question. Maybe we should just stick with what was in Rev. Lee’s book.

Like the following:
“Still limping from a Yankee bullet, an old darkey, with a grizzled beard and an honest face, hobbled into the office of the World-News at a busy hour yesterday.
"Kin you white folks gimme a little money fur my church?" he asked, doffing his tattered hat as he bowed.
Typewriters tickled their hurried denial.
The aged negro cocked his head on one side. "What, I ain't gwine ter turn away Ole Marse Robert's nigger is yer? You didn't know dat I was Gen. Robert Lee's cook all through de wah, did yer?" Every reporter in the office considered that introduction sufficient, and listened for half an hour to William Mack Lee, who followed General Robert E. Lee as body guard and cook throughout the Civil War. When the Negro lifted his bent and broken figure from a chair to take his leave every man in the office reached into his pocket, for a contribution.”

Before you send me more stories of the happy slave, do me a big favor and go look up the term “shuck-n-jive” first.

Are They Called Negroes?

2010-07-01T23:06:00.003-04:00

She was by far the oldest person at the family reunion. She shuffled around and everyone stooped down to explain, help, and give reverence to the reigning matriarch of the occasion. I’m not really sure how we are related, great aunt, great cousin in-law, I have never been all that close with this side of the family.

I found myself sitting next to her at a banquet table one evening. “what nationality is she?” she asked me, referring to my daughter, who was sitting near us.

“Her Mom is African-American.”

“Afro what? African? Amrination?” she struggled.

“Her Mom, my wife, is black,” I simplified.

“Oh. Well ya never know. Sometimes they adopt ya know. Now where exactly is Philadelphia? What is it near?”

I thought about how to answer her question and took the easy way out. “Its near New York.” I was not prepared for what she asked next.

“Now, there’s lots of Negroes in New York right?”

I don’t recall exactly how I answered. I think I stammered some sort of affirmation trying to be respectful to both an old lady and a whole race of people.

“Nancy says I’m not supposed to say Negro. Is it Colored? I just don’t know what to say. What was it you said earlier? AfreeMerin?”

She doesn’t hear all that well, so I thought it best to just stay simple, “just say black.”

“They used to be really mean to them I think. Wouldn’t let them sit on the busses, go to school. I just don’t know, but I think that wasn’t right. I just think it was mean. But it’s better now, right? That’s all done now isn’t it.”

I could have answered her a million ways. I could have been upset, could have just dismissed her entirely, or climbed high up on my horse and lectured my senior. I imagined what my wife’s face would have looked like had she been here to hear the whole exchange; mouth open, one eyebrow arched higher than the other, head slightly to the side.

“It was worse than mean. It was more than wrong. Things can still get better.” Is all I said.

I should explain something about this woman.
Earlier that same day the whole family had taken a trip to not only where this woman grew up, but where she has spent nearly all her life; Lyman Wyoming. I stood in front of a small wood home, looked right, looked left, turned all the way around and saw nothing but that house. Not a tree, not a building, nothing. Nothing all the way to the horizon in all directions. For most of her life she had to travel just to see another person. I think she may have met a total of 2.5 black people in her whole life. It has been a long life. Lest one think this isolation would amplify the affects of media, I should mention that for most of this woman’s life, they had no power. They had no power, as in influence, but mostly just in that they had no electricity. They lived “off the grid” as the hipsters would say today, but they did it in the 60’s.

What should I expect from a woman who lived in Wyoming with no TV during the 60’s? She is the equivalent of the average American today and our awareness of the state of indigenous tribes in Central America.

She is the generation of my grandmother. What should I expect her to have taught her children about race? Should I have expected her to address such an abstract in her world at all? We learn what we know through teaching and experience. On this subject she neither had, nor could give either.

Bishop William Henderson

2010-06-03T14:10:00.000-04:00

See this post with pictures at http://www.brohammas.com

The door to the Michigan Street Baptist Church was closed, but it wasn’t locked. As I stepped inside I heard a voice from downstairs call, “hello?”

The voice belonged to a middle aged black man who introduced himself as Bishop Montgomery. I chuckled a little and introduced myself the same way. “Well aren’t we something? That over there is Bishop Henderson,” Bishop Montgomery said, pointing to a grey bearded man seated at the table.

Bishop Montgomery showed me around the small chapel. The pulpit is original. It is where Montgomery speaks on Sundays, and where Dubois spoke long ago. He showed me the progress of current renovations to the stained glass windows, and directed my attention to a small door leading to the attic. “That up there used to hide runaway slaves.” I was told about how hiding runaways was risky, even in a free state. If caught, the church would be shut down. But the church hid them still the same. We talked for a bit as we, walked back downstairs.

“This old guy here is the one to answer your history questions,” Montgomery said as Bishop Henderson slowly pulled himself up to his feet.

I haven’t met anyone quite like Bishop Henderson.

He took me to the back of the basement and into the bathroom. Here he pulled aside a curtain to show a small compartment, smaller than coat closet. He told me that people being ushered along the Underground Railroad would crouch here, hiding from slave catchers. He told me the place was special and he wouldn’t let the workers patch up the hole in the wall when they modernized the building. He told me how no one ever liked slave catchers, even people who didn’t like black people still didn’t like slave catchers. These holders of negative opinion included the city judge, the one the slave catchers would have to go to get warrants. This judge would start proceedings, excuse himself to use the restroom, and never come back, abandoning the court while in session. He told of how those running away had to rely completely on the goodness of others, others meaning white people, to usher them to freedom. Black people could only conduct at night. It was up to whites to open houses, drive wagons, row boats, as black people would all be targets of capture themselves. He told the stories with energy, conviction, and surprising detail.

I let him talk, he likes to talk, but one question started to distract me from all the rest. Finally I asked, “You are a Baptist Bishop, you were the pastor of this very church, why do you wear a star of David?”

He smiled as his hand moved up to the pendant around his neck. You see, my mother was African-American, but my Dad was a Jew. I used to hate my Dad, but as time has gone along, I have grown to appreciate him and the culture he came from. “So it’s an ethnic rather than religious symbol for you?” I continued. “Yes.”

Now I had a whole new set of questions.
“You are, shall we say from a generation before my own,” I began; “More like two,” he interrupted. “Was it difficult being raised the product of mixed parentage?”

He told me the following story:
“I wasn’t raised mixed. I wasn’t raised by my parents. A black family adopted me when I was very little and black was all I ever knew. My family was black, everyone at school was black, and everyone in church was black. I never knew of anything like prejudice till high school when I became best friends with a boy, six foot three and dark skinned… looked just like me. Wherever we went, people would say, there go salt n’ pepper. As I got older I would occasionally guest pastor at some other churches, black churches. I would stand up in front of them and watch as they started whispering around to each other, who is this guy and what does he have to say to US? I would just smile and say, my mom was black and my dad was a Jew. I’m not black or white, I’m a whole new creature created by God to preach of Christ! He said this always went over well.

I knew my Dad growing up; I just didn’t know he was my Dad. Our neighborhood was mixed back then, we had some of everybody. We used to watch the Jewish people walk to church on Saturdays. They wouldn’t drive, that was work, and they observed the Sabbath.
I had a dog, I loved that dog like little boys do; he was my best friend. One day the dog was hit in the road and I remember sitting there in the street holding my dog as it died, tears flowing as I cried. People were all gathered round, just watching, not doing anything. Then, through the crowd, came this man. He bent down and put his arms around me and held me, comforted me. No one else moved, just this white, Jewish man, and I felt a special bond with him from that day on. We all used to play in the streets and I would see him from time to time, watching from a distance. I didn’t know till much later that he was my Dad, just as I didn’t appreciate till much later that my father had no choice.
I was a child born out of wedlock and as such had to be cast out. It didn’t matter my race, I wasn’t allowed.”

He showed me a picture of his mother, who died while he was a child. He showed me a picture of his wife and grown daughter. I told him about my daughters. I told him about how my six year old was confused when told about segregation, with special places for white and black. She wanted to know where the tan kids sat. He smiled; he does that easily.

“Talk to your kids. You don’t have to tell them more than they are ready for, they learn bit by bit, but answer the questions as they come.”
“I warned you he liked to talk,” Bishop Montgomery interjected as he walked through the room. It was time for me to go.

I think Bishop Henderson would have sat and talked with me all day had I kept asking questions. I would have liked that. But the parking meter was still running, I had a schedule to keep, and wisdom does no good if we never step back into the real world.
I shook his hand, took his card, and he showed me to the door.

Al Allen

2010-03-26T14:33:00.001-04:00

One Easter season Al Allen, a man from a previous generation, took pity on a young couple with no family in town, and invited us over for an Easter dinner. As we made our way down his stairs to where a larger than normal table was set up to accommodate us, we stepped into what could have been a Greenville County black history museum.

Every inch of wall space in the finished basement was covered with photographs, certificates, and various nostalgic paraphernalia. There was a young Al with a football team, with some man in a suit, with a group of men in suits, pictures of buildings I had never seen, and some pictures of buildings I had seen. The images were all in black and white, but the people were all black. He told me tales of when he met with so and so, or worked on a commission with you know who, none of who's names I knew then or can remember now; except Sterling Field.

I played rugby on Sterling Field three times a week. It was in the less attractive part of town, we had to share the field with local little league football teams, but it was the cheapest field around for a low budget sports club. "Used to be a great field," Mr. Allen told me matter of factly. "Yeah? What happened to it?" I asked, not really caring as I was more interested in the images on the wall than his list of unrecognized names. His answer to my half hearted question got my full attention.

He told me how Sterling High school used to have the best football team around. It was the county's black school and the pride of all who went there. The kids got a top notch education, the community loved the place, and to top it all off, they won football games. Then came integration.

Integration didn't happen all at once. Like most things, first rumors started, then meetings were held, and finally maybe a couple years later, something would happen. It was the late 60's and the writing was on the wall, the whole state knew it was coming. Word came that Sterling would not be closed, sending their students off to other schools, but rather white kids were to be sent there. This was a top performing school both in academics and on the field; it was going to be a great example and the Sterling community was guardedly excited. Then, the year before it was to integrate...

It burned to the ground.

It caught fire the night of prom and burned down to stubble. The school was never rebuilt, and in 1970 all the kids were bussed off to other schools.

As he told the story there was no anger or resentment in his voice. He was just an older guy telling a "back in the day" story. He moved right from that story to showing me his collection of R&B records. The rest of the night consisted of great food, his wife chiding him for trying to smoke in doors when a baby was in the house, and him later giving that baby a stuffed rabbit the size of a live horse. I've never been the best at keeping in touch and I have no idea how Al Allen is today. I wonder how he is, but I never do anything.

Travelers and visitors to Greenville would never know stories like this, and that is just fine. Everywhere has its ghosts; they need not be put on constant display. So if you ever find yourself half way between Atlanta and Charlotte, enjoy it. Visit the Reedy River with its stunning bridge, get some jewelry at the Beaded Frog, and as you look at the confederate flags. know that Sterling field used to be nice.

Tuskegee Airmen

2010-03-23T22:43:00.003-04:00

An oft ignored or unknown aspect of post emancipation America is the systematic crushing of black dreams. Those of my generation have always known, or been taught, of the first black this, or first black that. The initial astronaut, millionaire, Oscar winner, or president, have been praised. They have been praised to such an extent that the significance and relevance of such achievements have been lost, rendering the names trivial. Those cynical, young, or simply white, oft find it difficult to not drift towards the all encompassing, “so what.”

I turned off my prescribed path to follow a sign announcing a Tuskegee Airmen Memorial. I was nowhere near Alabama, North Africa, or even a military base. I was intrigued. I found myself at an isolated South Carolina field that had at one time, just a short time, served as an airstrip servicing the squadron of black airmen while in training. There was a small statue under a tree, a couple of plaques explaining some history, and an old searchlight.
The plaques explained that in an effort to squelch the new squadron, officials required all applicants to have a college degree and flight experience. Those same officials were astounded at the number of men who qualified. To that surprise is where my thoughts wandered.

We have been taught, indoctrinated, with the ideal of the American dream. We have been raised with the expectation that in America if you work hard, if you try, you will achieve. I was told by my teachers, my parents, my politics, by my very culture, that I must learn, work, and try. If I did, my goals would be realized. All these African-American firsts helped to prove this. A memorial to the Airmen helped me realize otherwise.

Those surprised officials believed the dream. These Americans had misjudged their culture’s ability to elevate the able. They saw the lack of black doctors, professors, lawyers, and black professionals as proof that black people lacked qualifications. In the land of meritocracy it was assumed that the disparity in achievement was a direct result of who had, or did not have, merit. They were proved wrong. How did they get it so wrong?

Slaves were not allowed to read or write, yet there was still a Frederick Douglass. After Emancipation schools were opened and quickly flooded with students. Most of our books or lessons plot this point on the timeline and chart a vertical trajectory in dramatic fashion. The subsequent glossing over of all that transpired between then and the civil rights movement has left us blind to things we still don’t want to see. All those firsts were not the first qualified, they were the first allowed.

For every one who achieved there were many who had previously learned and worked hard only to be thwarted. They were not held back by inadequacy but by America. W.E.B. Dubois, the first black man to graduate with a PhD from Harvard, a man now considered one of the United States greatest sociologists, was commissioned by the University of Pennsylvania to do research and teach their students, but was denied a seat as professor. He could teach the students, but not be recognized as a teacher. Fisk, Howard, Morehouse, and even Harvard and Yale, produced black graduates long before the greater society produced black professionals. It seems the speed of work, education, and legislation, were outpaced by locked doors, hard heads, and burnt crosses.

America is the land of dreams, the land of opportunity? Yes, but it is, and has also been, a land littered with the remnants of crushed dreams and dashed aspirations. Our country has created for itself a dual past and a checkered present. Some were elevated and rewarded, others filled full of hope only to have it pushed back into the ground from which it sprung. Things were not fair. Things were never meant to be completely fair. That is true no matter one's race just as it is true that any man or woman stands a better chance of progress in America than any other land. We can hold our heads high but should never do so with eyes closed. If America is to pride herself in all the firsts she helped create, she must also admit that she is the one who stopped many other firsts from happening.

But the firsts have come. As I looked at the bronze bust of a brown pilot looking up at the sky, I smiled cynically. I smiled because it made perfect sense why these pilots showed no fear of German planes. It was obvious why they proved so adept at avoiding enemy flak. These were men who had a lifetime of having their dreams being shot down. They had previously been trained under ‘friendly fire.’ That is the real triumph of these airmen. I cannot, nor do I know anyone who can, tell me the name of any of these heroes. I can find no real record of any of them later reaching some notable milestone. They weren’t remarkable for any one event or battle. What made them special is that they existed and despite the anti-aircraft fire from home, they still had wings and flew.

Black People Are More Racist; Part 1 of Many

2010-02-12T11:20:00.005-05:00

My wife and I were once asked to describe ourselves in five words or less. Mine went something like Mormon, husband, artist, blah, blah, blah, hers went black, woman, something, something, something.
If this would have been a few years earlier her answer would have worried me. It may have even upset me.

Race was not just on her list but at the top. Race? Black? Really? I had not even thought to list my color. In my own mind color had absolutely nothing to do with who I was as a person. Race shouldn't’t even matter right? Listing that as the top thing on your list is a problem right? Was it wrong?

I should back up a bit.

Growing up I felt I had absolutely no culture. I looked at my Hawaiian friend with envy as his family performed traditional dances and sang songs in another language. I spent considerable time with a group of American Indian dancers and always secretly, or not so secretly, wished I would one day be adopted into one of their tribes. My family name is Scottish and with little to no real knowledge of the foggy isle, I developed an appreciation for bagpipes that I maintain to the present day. I loved and appreciated everyone’s culture mostly because I felt I didn’t have one of my own.

Then I left Utah.

I went to a place where I looked like everyone else, but I was nothing like them. We spoke the same language but the accent was new. The people were every bit as religious as I, we even worshiped using the same words, but the meanings were no where near the same. I knew songs these new people did not. I even celebrated a holiday in July they knew nothing about. I discovered something. I discovered I had a culture all along, I simply did not recognize it when I was in that culture’s cradle. I hadn’t recognized my culture because it helped me blend in with everyone else rather than making me stand out.

As I spent more time outside my native place I became more comfortable. I learned my way and place with new groups, still I found myself more comfortable more quickly, with those who came from the same place I did. I found I could relate quicker to those who went snowboarding not out of some X Games adrenaline quest, but simply because it was what we always did. It was what everyone did. I am very in tune with my own mortality, so much so that while I snowboard, I avoid the half pipe at all costs. Those who only know of snowboarding from the movies or ESPN2 have trouble understanding this, or even believing it. I related to people who went camping for fun, because it was what we all did for fun. I was, and still am to some point, comfortable around others with this shared culture because they are more likely to understand little things about me. They are more likely to get past what I am to understand who I am.

At work I quickly became “the Mormon guy”, and rarely became anything more than that. I paint, read, write, travel, love to talk politics, love football, and love movies, but if my work associates ever tried to talk with me one on one, they never got much past “so you don’t drink at all? How many wives do you really have?”

Sometimes my culture brings me in direct conflict with the culture I live in. I will not eat at Hooters, I will not go to your bachelor party if it includes certain activities or locations, and sports or parties are not part of my Sunday. I find most people are respectful of who I am and what I believe, but they don’t understand it.

I have a deep and all encompassing culture and all throughout my youth I didn’t know it. I never saw it because it blended with everyone else. No one had to point out my culture because it was theirs as well.

That’s why it did not, nor does it upset me, that my wife wrote black on her list.

We white people don’t think our whiteness is part of who we are.

It is.

We don’t see it because largely, every one else we see is white too. Try going somewhere whites don’t go. A club, a neighborhood, an island, or even continent and see how long your whiteness remains a non-factor. It’s O.K., its part of who you are. Do it your whole life and see if it doesn’t begin to shape you.
See if you don’t begin to feel comfortable with those who also relate to being white when no one else is. See if you don’t enjoy the comfort of being with those who don’t need you to explain yourself. See if your color makes it’s way onto your list.

I know this now. Because I know this I am not upset or offended, nor am I afraid of or alienated by, a black person declaring they are black. I do not mind black kids sitting together at lunch, or mind that there is a channel or a caucus where race matters. I do not mind it and it is not inherently racist.

It’s O.K. To some point, I get it.

Robert E. Lee

2010-02-07T13:53:00.004-05:00

(post with photographs can be viewed at http://www.brohammas.com)
I once had a small handbook titled “How to Speak Southern.” Under the heading Robert E. Lee, the book had the definition, “The finest gentlemen to ever walk the face of the earth and greatest example of what it means to be Southern.” I believe it was the only part of the book not written in jest.

Robert E. Lee was born in 1807 at Stratford Hall, only a few miles from where George Washington was born, on the Chesapeake Bay. Lee was the product of Colonial gentry and his father was a revolutionary hero (Light horse Harry). Built in the 1730’s, the home remains enviable to this day. It is everything you would expect for the original Governor of Virginia and the very definition of “landed gentry.”

There is a fee to enter the grounds and when you do so they take some general information for their visitor’s log. When I told the man in the little booth my zip code he paused, “that’s Philadelphia isn’t it?”
Turns out he grew up 3 blocks from where I now live. He asked if the area has gotten any better to which I had to reply, “not really.” He knocked ten dollars off my admission.

The place is closed for winter renovations and I could see carpenters at work through the frosted windows. The brochures talk of how the estate was a self sustained village and center for colonial life. That looked as if it was true, with the palace in the center and village shacks surrounding it. Upon closer inspection all the small shacks were labeled “slave quarters.” The larger shacks or buildings were the stables and barn, or the detached, large, kitchen that served the main house.

I have often read of the struggle Lee had at the outbreak of the war, as to which side he would join. He was invited to lead the Union forces but declined in order to serve Virginia and become the most storied General in the Civil War. Looking at the grandeur of his childhood I wonder how much of an internal struggle he may have really had. Here, before me was a level of comfort I would never aspire to gain, but it was his heritage. Here I saw a way of life that anyone would hope to one day gain, but he had it before he entered this world. It was who he was.

It would have taken a remarkable person to join and fight for a side in which victory meant the destruction of the world from which he came. If the North prevailed, places like Stratford Hall would be unsustainable.

Then again, Lee would have had a front row seat to the horrors of slavery. Lee would have seen what it looked like to degrade another person for your own benefit. He would have sat at the table being served by people who were good enough to raise your children, but then beaten when displaying independent thought. How could someone who saw this first hand pick up the sword in order to defend the right to kill and maim another person without punishment?

Many will think me unfair in my thought process and wondering here. Many will say I cannot judge a man in history by present standards. Many will tell me to relax and temper my zeal.

None of those leveling that criticism will be black people. The ones descended from those who truly had the most at stake in Lee’s decision.

Booker T. and Perspective

2010-02-06T12:17:00.004-05:00

Booker T. Washington
(see photos with this post at http://www.brohammas.com/)

I had driven an hour out of my way through winding country roads not passing any other motorists and finally reached the National Park around 7am. The sign announced the park would open at 8 and the gate wore a thick chain with matching padlock. It took a little bit of effort to crawl under the gate but I did so and started the mile walk up the road to the historic site.

Booker T. Washington was born a slave in 1856. He knew nothing of his father other than that he was a white man, a slave master from somewhere else. The plantation he worked was not the genteel manor like Monticello, but rather a simple and lonely tobacco farm some miles outside of Roanoke. Roanoke is closer to West Virginia than D.C. but not near anything.

On these sorts of plantations the owner and his family labor alongside the slaves. Booker tells of the day he heard the Emancipation Proclamation read from the porch of the “big house”; the one the master lived in. Booker did not stay but left to work in West Virginia that same year.

It had snowed earlier in the week and it crunched under my feet as I guided myself around the farm. It was not crisp, it was cold. The recreated cabin built on the foundation of Booker’s actual birthplace was small. Not small as in quaint but small in that the doors were shorter than I am.

I looked around at my surroundings. I could see no one or nothing other than the small collection of slave cabins, a ramshackle barn, the foundation of the “big house”, and the visitor center at the op of the hill. It was miserable.

Booker T. Washington was no descendent of our first president. He impulsively gave himself that last name once he finally attended school and realized everyone else had two names. I have read his works, thought about his philosophy and even lightly participated in the still ongoing debate between his and Du Bois’s ideas. I have usually sided with Du Bois. I have read and listened as he was criticized for being on the payroll of large white organizations while preaching concessions. I have disagreed with his “let’s just do the best we can with how things are,” leaning. I have always been in the Du Bois camp.

Standing in front of the building he lived in I was ashamed that I even had an opinion. I was tired having driven from West Virginia in bad weather, Washington had walked it.
I was born the child of parents who both had masters’ degrees, I coasted through school, and find some pride in that I worked my own way through college. That pride is gone.

Sometimes you have an intellectual knowledge of something. You read. Listen, and learn about history and ideas. You think critically and strain to come up with new ideas, better ideas, and progress. You can gain all this knowledge and learning and still not know anything. Standing there alone in the snow I felt something. I looked at a place that was worse than humble even in its own time period, and yet I have studied his writings 200 years later. What have I, or anyone I know, done worth studying 200 years from now? What would be expected from me if raised in this place? What would we expect from anyone? What were others able to do who came up similarly?
Mr. Washington turned schools into Universities. Mr. Washington stood up and spoke when others were content to listen. He thought and taught, and better yet, he did.

It doesn’t matter what I think of his ideas because 200 years later my kids, like him, have a white father and a black mother. But in some way thanks to him, my children’s lives and the circumstances of their creation are absolutely nothing alike.

I drove away without the radio on. I was still feeling things. I came to that place because of proximity to where I was and a sense of historical responsibility. I went there not as a real fan of the man. I left there touched. I, a person largely in control of my own emotions, was moved unexpectedly. I went, looked around, and left with a little perspective. That is what is missing in the debates of today, perspective. Not just the kind of perspective where one looks at things from all angles, but the kind that comes from feeling something. The kind that comes from the chest and not from text.

Happy Black History Month.

Kids and Race

2010-01-23T21:15:00.001-05:00

“Mom. Who was Martin Lu… Martin Luf… Who was Martin…”

“Who was Martin Luther King?” Kay asked, anticipating the name our 5 year old was having trouble with. After having just had time off from school, lots of big dinners, presents, and decorations, our daughter is very interested in holidays. She knows she has a holiday coming up but she doesn’t know anything about it.

Kay told her that a long time ago black kids weren’t allowed to go to school with white kids and they couldn’t play together. My daughter stared at her Mom with mouth open and eyes wide.

Kay continued that white people could sit in the front of the bus, black people in back, white people anywhere in the movies, black kids only in the balcony. At this my little girl looked concerned and with pleading eyes asked, “where did the tan kids have to sit?”

Studies show that white people don’t talk to their kids about race. A group of parents signed their kids up for a study on children’s attitudes about race. Parents were asked their views on race, and black people in particular. All said their opinions were favorable. The kids of these same parents were asked if their folks liked black people. More than half said they didn’t know, the rest said ,”no”.

Turns out kids can see the difference in skin color, they don’t have to be told about it. At the same time kids figure out that we don’t talk about things that are bad.

The prevailing idea among many white people is that race does not matter. Not only does it not matter but it is best to ignore race as if it does not exist. Consequentially we talk to kids about candy, making their bed, home work, dreams, movies, crayons, friends, the difference between boys and girls, all sorts of good stuff.
We don’t talk to them about bad grown up stuff like death and sex. We don’t let them see scary movies and we cover their eyes when bad stuff comes on TV. We don’t talk about war and we don’t talk about black people.

Kay told how Martin Luther King gave a big speech that helped people realize that keeping everyone separate was wrong. She told how he helped get bad laws changed. Our little girl said, “oh, O.K.”, and went off to play.

Justice and it's system

2010-01-15T00:15:00.003-05:00

I was in court again today, this time with the prosecution.

Before everything got started, the public defender addressed the crowd sitting with me in the gallery, “I am the court appointed defender. I am by myself today so please be patient. Do not worry if we have not spoken yet, I will get to you, and the court will give us time to talk before your case is heard. Though your case may be new to me, I am not new to this, and you will get a good defense.” He looked to be all of 25 years old.

The prosecutor who called me last night, to make sure I was still coming, was nervous. As we waited through the two hour roll call of cases she explained that this was her first theft case. Her bulldog of a partner was not nervous at all but rather in her element.
She rolled her eyes at the defense attorneys, exchanged knowing looks with all the police officers, and whatever she did, she did it abruptly.

The court made myself and all who were to testify in this case leave the room till it was their turn to take the stand. I found myself in a small waiting room with the three cops who caught the guy breaking into my car back in September.
“This guys gonna get off”, said the young, blonde, officer who had originally offered to let me have some “alone time” with the captive in the back of his squad car. “Why”, I responded.

He explained how he had seen it a million times. They catch people and always end up right back on the street for him to pick up again. “That’s why I always tell people that if they catch someone, to handle business themselves. We will say they fell down, or say whatever we have to, but if you want justice you need do it yourself. Besides, this judge is an @#$... they all are; lawyers and all”. At this last remark Officer Ramos looked over at him, then over at the fidgety prosecutor, and suggested, “present company excluded of course.” The blonde guy just stared back silently. “You’re an --- ----,” Ramos finished.

This disillusioned cop reminisced about a poster a Sr. officer once had in his office showing a picture of Commissioner Rizzo and a quote that read “No judge can administer justice as well as the end of a nightstick.” At this all three officers began to tell tales of how they miss the tool they are no longer allowed to carry. One even told of how once, while pursuing a suspect, another officer with one swipe of his wand, shattered both the suspect’s legs.

“Seriously?!” I inquired. “Tell me you have to be absolutely sure you have the right guy before doing something like that.” At this they all laughed out loud. The third officer, who had not previously spoken, told a story of how he had once joined a pursuit while off duty and in civilian clothes. He was ahead of the other cops, who quickly caught and beat him. He told the story while chuckling.
I asked What about catching the wrong guy? I asked if he had ever caught the wrong guy. After looking down at the desk for a moment, as if reflecting, he answered,”no”. He was serious.

The case was tried and the thief was found guilty of attempted theft and reckless conduct (he kicked out the tail light of the car while being arrested). As this was the defendant’s 33rd arrest and fifth conviction, he was given 2 years jail time. He was also ordered to pay restitution. When I asked the experienced lawyer how this restitution thing works she replied, “with this guy, he will probably leave a stolen radio on your porch every other month.” I don’t plan on seeing a dime.

Giving to the Needy

2009-12-26T21:36:00.003-05:00

A year ago, some people in a very affluent suburb wanted to do something good and helpful for Christmas. They passed around the hat, collected some money, and made an anonymous donation to a family in the inner city. It was a very generous act, they are truly good people, but was this act thoughtful, or even helpful?

I feel a bit like Scrooge even asking that question. Well maybe it’s the rhetorical nature of the question that has me feeling Grinch-ish, because I already have an answer. No.

This group of people gave the gift to someone they knew of, but did not know. They gave it to me.
Why me? Without asking it was easy to surmise; they first, knew I exist, and second, knew I live in the “inner city”.
They knew of my family’s existence due to our both being part of a larger religious community. My activities in this church often bring me in contact with those who do not attend my regular congregation, so it would be easy for someone who does not know me personally, to have some small familiarity with my name. That would easily combine with their knowledge of the geographic boundaries of my actual congregation, but this is the extent of our intimacy.
These well meaning people have a view of what it means to live in the inner city, and in many cases it is accurate, but they never go there. Not only do they not go there but people who live “there” rarely if ever, venture out. News cameras broadcast reports from the grimiest of places and tell the saddest or most sordid tales, and an image is permanently cast.

This image is not entirely false. I could introduce these people to countless associates of mine with stories worthy of “Extreme Home Makeover”, or more likely” Cops”, either way, people in need of a gift. I am surrounded by those in need. But those are not they to whom the gift was given, it was given to me. At the time I was in the fifth year of a career with a Fortune 500 company, enjoying a nice salary, a regular bonus structure, a company car complete with gas card, and even a healthy expense account. Of those who attend my congregation my family would have surely qualified as one of the least in need of outside assistance. This has made me think a bit.

Many want to help. Many even take steps, especially at this time of year, to do something helpful. I fear most of these efforts are wasted. Maybe not wasted but rather squandered. How can any of us help another without first knowing what help they really need? That is the hard part, identifying the true need. It’s the nitty-gritty, nuts and bolts of helping, it’s the dirty work. Not only is it dirty, but it takes time, more time than December provides.

Maybe it would have been a better idea to have given me a phone call first. I could have passed them along to someone else more deserving, or accepted the gift with the charge to pass it along to someone else.

I would hate for those who have, to stop giving to those who don’t, but we can do better. Let us start thinking things through to the end. Let’s take the next step and make sure we know the situation before we act. Let us try to actually solve the problems we think are out there rather than just make a little dent in them. I know it’s hard. I know most people don’t have the time. I understand. In the end, maybe these folks, while a bit unknowingly, did the best thing.

If you don’t truly know the needy, give to those who do.

Rugby Movie!

2009-12-22T11:34:00.002-05:00

The first time I saw “The Power of One” was with my friend Pete.
It was the night before he was to leave on a two year mission for our church. Now what you do on your last day before leaving is significant. During the next two years a 19 year old missionary will not watch any TV, listen to any radio or secular music, not email or make social phone calls, and no movies.

Pete despite his popularity, was never all that social of a guy. On his last night of social freedom he just wanted to relax and watch a video. I had never heard of that movie, nor had anyone else I knew. I have no idea where he picked it up or why. There was no preface, we simply popped it in and sat back.

I loved it. A coming of age tale wrapped in a message of the individual’s responsibility to stand up for what is right. It seemed appropriate for one about to embark on a religious mission. I filed it away in my memory. Wished Pete well, and then followed his footsteps two weeks later. I went to Atlanta.

Upon my return, older and strangely aware of race in a way I wasn’t before, I went on with my life. Part of that life, a big part, was rugby.

A big enough part that I have suffered two broken noses, surgery on that nose, two broken thumbs, or rather the same thumb broken twice, two concussions, 32 stitches on my head or face, I am not sure how many times I have lost the toenail from my big toes, and I experienced the joy of surgery to replace my ACL.
This affair with the egg shaped ball has continued over thirteen years, four states, and five teams. I plan to nurture the romance as long as the lady will have me, or as long as I have insurance.

Over the years I have had the pleasure of playing with or against all sorts of people from all sorts of places once touched by the British Empire; Ireland, Scotland, Australia, New Zealand, the islands of the South Pacific, and of course, South Africa.

Every Afrikaner I ever met, at some point, lived up to the negative stereotype “The Power of One” planted in my mind. The first was a coach whom I overheard telling another group of players how Polynesians are not meant to play rugby as they are not built for endurance and are simply not mentally capable of sticking to a game plan when the game is on the line. This was my first day with that team and I immediately went across town and joined a Polynesian team.
The second encounter was in the office of my employer. I was alone at my desk when one of our contractors walked in and had a seat. He was a former professional in his native land, a prop forward. He was waiting for the boss to show up, but he never did. During the boredom of our wait he entertained me with feats of strength, one of which was tearing a phone book in half with his hands. After the demonstration he turned to telling stories. He told of how he used to play all over the world, how he used to hunt wild game on safari, used to drink unheavenly amounts of Guinness, and of course how his country was ruined by the end of apartheid. This included him telling me how the “natives” used to kill each other by tying someone up, placing a gasoline filled tire around their neck, and lighting them on fire. He continued that he wished they would have done it too all the black people so he could go home.
The third time, in another state, on another team, we were running a warm-up lap around our practice field. We shared the field with a local little league football team. On this particular day the football team was having a scrimmage which forced us to alter our usual course by a whopping twenty yards. As we passed behind the stands of Moms and Dads watching their kids, one of my teammates shouted something in Afrikaans that neither they nor I understood. But I did understand that one word, which allowed me to get the gist of what he must have said.

I cringed when I watched the Springboks win the most recent rugby World Cup. Why them? How could the most dominant All Blacks team ever, loose to those guys? Where is the Karma?
Then I saw Invictus.

I read some reviews from writers who get paid to write, writers who said things like, “the soundtrack is melodramatic, the slow motion is over used, but the whole feel-good cheesiness of it all is overshadowed by the fact that this is how it actually went down”.

Amen.

Matt Damon, Morgan Philanderer Freeman, and Clint Eastwood have etched their way into my heart with this one movie.
Matt Damon; preppy poet, super spy, pick pocket, card shark, and janitor genius, can now add Afrikaner flanker to the list.
Morgan Freeman has been a lot of things, including God, but to me he was Jull Pete (sp?), the boxing trainer/prisoner in “The Power of One”. Jull Pete now playing Nelson Mandela? There is justice!
Clint, the king of cool, Dirty Harry, you have done what no other sports movie director has done, remained accurate.

The greatest sports movie is of course “Rudy”. So much so that I refer to that clamming up feeling one gets preceding a cry as “the Rudy feeling”. Yet that movie, as well as all other football movies, messes up the football.

There will be a clip of the team in the huddle where the quarterback will call, “flanker left 26 veer”, and then the team will run to the line and run a pass play. Or the classic final touchdown scene where the hero is running down the sideline behind the fat guy who blocks one, then another, then another opponent till the ball carrier makes the touchdown. Most players are happy to get one successful block per play let alone three. That is Hollywood. Thank you Mr. Eastwood for not doing that to Rugby.

Your scrum may have been a little long, and if I recall correctly the whistle was blown while the ball was still in play, but that is far outshined by the fact that all the players on the field looked forty years old.

The actors playing ruggers were not pretty, they did not look like top flight professional athletes, but they did look like rugby players. There was an actor who was only in a few bit parts, who said no lines, who actually looked a bit like Andrew Mehrtens. Jonah Lomu looked like Jonah Lomu, maybe a bit smaller. There were no helicopter tackles and by any movie standards everyone looked a bit slow while running.

It was real rugby!

But most of all, above all else, it made me forget my disdain for a group of people. I will not be ordering a gold and green jersey any time soon, but I will admit that Schalk Berger may be a better flanker than Richie McCaw. I will cede that they scrum better than everyone else. Mostly I will admit that they helped provide a great sports story. They proved that while I dislike most everyone I have met from there, they were worth cheering for.

Go All Blacks!

Drawing Done On Location

2009-12-19T16:30:00.005-05:00

Pittsburgh

Above all else, above the cold, above how genuinely friendly everyone seemed, above everything, I noticed Steelers gear.

Everyone, everywhere, wore black and gold, and the team is doing horribly. I am not a Steelers fan but hats off to the Burgh for showing support...

I also noticed, written on the wall of a restroom, the sidewalk in front of the Fort Pitt Museum, and lastly on one of the rails of the Andy Warhol Bridge, was the "N" word.

One was a joke about death and Cadillacs, the others just a negative adjective followed by the word.

I know anyone who scrawls on public property with a marker is automatically the lowest common denominator, and I see graffiti of all sorts everywhere I go, but not that word, and surely not repeated.

You can't judge a city by the writing on the wall, but a city with "that" written on it does leave an impression.

Show your support

2009-12-09T09:34:00.001-05:00

Living or working in Philly can be rough. Crime is not some theoretical political issue to be argued about, but a reality that is lived through.
In 2007 we averaged more than one murder for every day of the year. The thing about murder statistics is that it only counts those who die, it does not tell us how many people actually get shot or stabbed, or just plain beat up.

When the numbers, or rather the chaos, gets to this scale it can be assumed that a portion of both the deaths and the killers, will be cops.

Things have gotten better in the past three years. But not all better.
Last year, in my neighborhood, an officer was killed while responding to a bank robbery. The next day, while the department was still searching for the suspects, a news camera caught 12 officers severely beating a black man they mistook as the robber. Turns out he was not.

No one got fired. I think three were suspended.

Stories of Police beatings are many and come regularly. They don’t do all the dishing, I can recall three times last year where I had to wait for a city long motorcade carrying an officer to his final resting place.
It has gotten long past ridiculous.

Let me tell you a little bit about my neighborhood.
During the day the narrow, short, streets have few parked cars; everyone is at work. In the evening those same streets are lined with panel vans, work trucks, and cop cars. Most of the kids attend catholic school, and most of those kids’ grand parents can be found sitting on a stoop somewhere nearby saying hello to people by name as they walk by. The neighborhood is very stable and nearly all white.

The day the cameras caught the gang of cops beating the suspects in the street, I had a conversation with my next door neighbor. I expressed my disappointment in the officers’ behavior. She did not. I should have known better, her Dad was a cop. She regularly wears a t-shirt in support of the officer who was famously shot by Mummia. I expressed my understanding that theirs is the hardest job there is, along with my feeling that along with the risk comes a responsibility to hold yourself to a higher standard. She did not agree.

We got a flier in our door informing us that someone would be coming along soon to offer us a blue light bulb to use in our porch light to show support for the Police Department. We don’t have a porch light. Most here do and in the evening the streets have a blue glow. There is no doubt where allegiances lie.

Two weeks ago, in our neighborhood, an off duty police officer shot and killed his 21 year old neighbor. There was apparently an altercation at a party in the officer’s home that spilled to the streets. The officer brandished a gun and most of the crowd left. The story goes that the victim stood his ground saying, “you aren’t going to shoot me.”

He did.

The Department is making no statements but the officer is currently on desk duty. An investigation has uncovered multiple past complaints about the officer including him shooting an opossum in the street, and him threatening, with a pulled gun, kids who bullied his 8 year old son.

Now there are orange ribbons everywhere. Our next door neighbor has one. She told us that the ribbons are a show of support for the victim’s family. I see those ribbons on street signs, on the counters at the corner store, and hanging from the porch lights that used to have blue light bulbs.

I don’t really want to talk about the cops here. Who am I to say one thing or the other when I am not the one getting paid far too little to risk my life for people who generally don’t appreciate it? While I have opinions and think right and wrong are not negotiable, I have as much right to give them as advice as I do Donovan McNabb.
I want to talk about the people in my neighborhood.

Why are they supporting the victim this time? Cops shoot people all the time and in the past, when there in controversy, support is without fail, given to the cop.

The difference here is that this time, the kid was someone they know. In the past it was always somewhere and someone else.
Funny how a little familiarity changes one’s perception.
In the past it was almost always just some black kid in the bad part of town, not one of “us”.

I don’t think anyone around here has noticed the irony, or the lesson. Next time a person is shot on the other side of the tracks and the family cries fowl, will we hesitate to screw in the blue bulb?
I doubt it.

Port Royal, Jamaica

2009-12-05T21:24:00.000-05:00

Its snowing in Philly today.

Corporate Hair

2009-11-21T19:36:00.001-05:00

“Good hair”
Some things have racial aspects but aren’t racist at the root.
I have listened to conversations about hair, grooming, and corporate dress that seam to miss something. The conversation lacks completeness. Lacks perspective.

Chris Rock has a movie about it (not just this but touching on it), I have heard two NPR roundtables on the subject, and read countless articles on the subject. None of them really got to the heart of the matter. They could have talked for hours and still never gotten there. They would never get there because they were headed the wrong direction. The discussion was really one sided. It was black sided.

It was all about black hair in the professional world.

They all talk about what is or isn’t accepted. They talked all about how African hair is frowned upon, rejected, forced to change. There was talk of how woman must have processed hair, afros and braids are outlawed, and heaven forbid someone have dreadlocks. They talked about the implications. They talked about cultural differences and the history of rejection of all things culturally black or African. Some were upset at the system, some were less so, but most all attributed it to race. They lamented that in the corporate world, one must dress and look, white.

My Dad and I had one repeating disagreement throughout my youth. One thing that never seamed to resolve, one wedge between us.

My hair.

In fourth grade everyone had a rat tail and shaved stripes like Brian Bozworth. I just wanted the tail. Dad said “no”. I would let the back grow out till it curled up around my neck and ears, then Dad, after arguing with my Mom and sisters, would drag me to the barber and turn me into a Marine. If you let a “high and tight” grow for about six months you have a nice preppy comb over, then shave off the sides and you have a respectable new wave, skater, do. Dad hated it.

By high school I pushed a little more. I liked the top long. Not hippie long, just to my chin. I kept the sides shaved. Dad thought it looked like someone grabbed me by the hair and stretched my head till my ears lowered five inches. Another adult said I looked like Bert from Sesame Street. I loved my hair.
Once, during my sophomore year, I actually hid in my locker (oversized football lockers) while the seniors, clippers in hand, looked all over asking, “where is the kid with the surfer hair?”
Before senior year coach asked us all to make a sacrifice to show our dedication to the team. He asked us to sacrifice our hair. My best friend, who had hair half way down his back, and I were distraught. What would we do? We found the answer in a Van Dame movie, “Bloodsport”. The bad guy looked awesome and we decided we would too.

We went with the team to make the sacrifice and both came out with shaved heads; except for a long tail from the crown of our heads. I was thinking tough guy kickboxer but in retrospect looked more Hare Krishna.
Dad was inconsolable.

To Dad’s credit he never said “because I said so.” He always explained. He explained a lot. I can’t count how many discussions started with, “I’ve been teaching for 30 years…”
Dad explained that people always make assumptions about people by how they look. He said kids always group together with similar styled kids. While he did not teach at the school I attended, he said he knew the type of kids who looked like me. He did not approve.
He told me he did not think my style meant I was bad. He expressed fear that others would not take the time to know me but simply make assumptions by looking at me and treat me accordingly. He was afraid that if everyone treated me like one of the bad kids, I would eventually start living up to their expectations.

Most importantly he worried that I loved my hair so much, and really I did. He worried about me serving a mission. In my religion serving a two year mission is more than a right of passage, it’s a religious responsibility. Every young man is expected to live worthily and serve. Missionary’s have strict grooming standards… especially concerning hair. While officially representing the church one is required to appear in the most culturally accepted, and wholesome, way possible. No bloodsport tails.

He worried my love for my locks would give me pause. He worried that this pause would grow into something more.
It didn’t.

Years later I was working in sales. I covered a $4,000,000 territory and would regularly present to purchasing boards, followed by a presentation to a team of janitors.
I remembered what my dad taught me and updated the lesson. I would regularly start the day in a nice dark colored suit, complete with conservative tie and cuff links. After the PowerPoint I would quickly loose the jacket and tie, roll up my sleeves, and rub the gel out of my hair.
How the different audiences saw me directly affected my sales results.

Back to the original subject.
The corporate look is in deed a white look. But make no mistake, it is not THE white look.
What all these African-American commentators and experts failed to recognize and acknowledge is that corporate culture is not only forcing black people to look a different way, but is also forcing other whites to look a certain way.
When I walked into the professional world I sacrificed a little part of who I am, a little part of my soul. Someone else dictated how I looked, what I did with my time, and even what I would drive. In return I got a check and insurance.

Some things have racial aspects, but are really not racial issues.

Worst Saturday of my life

2009-10-26T09:45:00.001-04:00

As the bus pulled of the turnpike and we started on the back country roads, the kids pulled out their earphones and started looking out the windows.

“Yo, it’s just like the movies! Where are we?”
“Where’s all the people?”
“It’s just too perfect out here, it makes me nervous.”
“Yo, I just saw a person! We been driving like all day and that’s the first person I saw.”
“Wait, where’s all the black people?”
“Yo, maybe this is like some Hitler type stuff and we only think we are going to play football.”
“They don’t like black people out here yo, we better look out for the reffs, ya know?”

I didn’t say anything. I just sat, listened, and watched the well tended corn fields and silos roll past.

The Milton Hershey School is a private boarding school founded by the Chocolate magnate with a charter to help troubled youth. The campus would make any college proud. There is a large, surprisingly modern main hall, a big athletic center, two huge outdoor swimming pools, one complete with a twisting water slide. I’m sure the sight of an actual stadium with a real locker room stunned many of the kids into silence, but I have no idea as I was distracted by all the “oohs” and “ahhs”. We filed out onto the pro grade synthetic turf, ran through some drills, and looked ready to play.

We had two weeks to get ready for this game. The first day of the two week build up was a Monday morning session that roused about 15 young men at the unheavenly hour of… 10 a.m. That Wednesday was study hall. Thursday it rained and ten kids showed up at the field. Friday Sarge called me to say only four kids checked out their pads today so don’t worry about heading for the field as no one would be there.
Monday was great weather, great turnout, and great practice. Tuesday was better weather and worse everything else. {Name withheld} was A.W.O.L. so later that night I went to his house. After using all my detective skills I found his home, not the address listed on school records, and he let me in. He was just feeding his little brother a dinner of chips and cool-aid. Turns out Grandma was rushed to the hospital, Mom hadn’t been heard from (which is normal), and {name withheld} had to watch little brother. We talked a bit about life and telephones and made sure little brother was spending the rest of the week at Dad’s.
Thursday was well attended but poorly executed.
Friday’s run through had key guys missing for good reasons (school), but many present were mentally missing. Jogged routes, inattentiveness, and plugged ears had me ready to strangle someone. We did our best to press through and I did my best to keep my words positive for the day before a game.

They ran back the opening kickoff for a touchdown.
We fumbled the ensuing kickoff giving them the ball on the 20. They scored on the first play from scrimmage. We punted after three plays. They ran their first play in for a touchdown.
As the touchdowns began to pour down, so did the rain. The torrent of both water and points on top of us seemed to imply that heaven and the other team were allied. Game time is chaotic enough under normal circumstances but we coaches began to flounder a bit. I did my best to refrain from negativity, which comes so easily when it is deserved, but not everyone made the same attempt. Some coaches fumed, while a couple simply disappeared. I mostly watched, trying to figure out exactly what was happening.

Just as I didn’t know the school would let non-players, including girls, on the bus, I didn’t know they would let parents onto the sidelines. During the debacle a short, round man with a long goatee was yelling, “It’s the fundamentals coach! Teach them to tackle coach! Your fundamentals suck coach!” He went on a loud continuation of that theme. By halftime I had had enough. I warned the other coaches I was going to try to talk to someone I would rather punch, and approached the man. Trying to keep cool, I asked the man to not address the players unless he had encouragement. He argued. I explained that he was not there on Monday through Friday and because of that had no idea what the kids are capable of. He got loud. He said he would start showing up every day because as a player and competitor he knew our fundamentals sucked. Now I got loud. I told him he was right, our fundamentals suck, but they are surely not going to learn fundamentals today, so his words were not helping anyone. He agreed, and shut up for the rest of the day.
The second half was highlighted by our 120lb. running back single handedly, or footadley, bouncing off of, and running around, every member of the other team, for a 50 yard touchdown. Our defense mostly shut down their sophomores. The guy at the clock let it run the whole second half and at the end, the score was 70-8.

70-8! I have never been a part of anything like that.

I wish I could say this was a wakeup call but I fear it wasn’t. It was for me.
When one starts at a huge disadvantage, how do you get them to the level where they can compete?
Do circumstances dictate that rules and expectations need to be adjusted?
Where is the balance between discipline and understanding?
These aren’t football questions, they are society questions. That game on Saturday wasn’t just a sporting event but an allusion to bigger things.
That is why my weekend was so hard. Not just losing a game, but the idea that my best efforts were/are inadequate.

White Supremacy

2009-09-29T20:59:00.000-04:00

I was aked via email to respond to the following quote.

"The word racism ceased to be the term which best expressed for me the exploitation of black people and other people of color in society and... I began to understand that the most useful term was white supremacy"

I was not told who said it or what they were talking about. Only told that the original emailer was offended by the statement.

Am I offended? Not at all.
Do I agree? I couldn't say without more context.
I think the key word in the statement, at least to me, is "useful".

We white people, especially white ones with a rightward lean, are far to thin skinned when criticized generally on matters of race. We, who place high value on personal accountability, or agency, and hard working thriftiness, have an Achilles heal with all things racial. We see all accusations of racism or wrongdoing as personal attacks and unknowingly begin defending our self, which leads to blaming minorities for their own problems, or at the very least fostering an attitude of skepticism when accusations are made.

I will not respond with anything I have read or learned academically, but only with my own personal (admittedly anecdotal) experience.

Racism is alive and well from both black and white. I would even say in equal proportions. Till the current President's campaign, I will strongly forward that black people were very accepting of overt racist comments regarding white people. Chris Rock is famous for his barbs, Rev Wright, etc etc... while Trent Lott, Imus, and others get in trouble far far more subtle remarks.
How unfair. White people are growingly upset by the double standard.

Not me. Why?

For starters, I have heard what white people say about black people when we are alone. I have heard the "N word" tossed about casually. I have heard elements of black culture condemned while the negatives in white culture go unmentioned. There are plenty of white racists, a fact which is scary once you realize that white people outnumber black people more than ten to one.
Who has more cause to be worried, black or white?
Which group has been actually injured by racism? Any white person who complains they have been injured by racism in any lasting way is lacking in understanding of the black experience. HUGELY lacking.

The general black populace is so far behind proportionately when compared with whites in general that one would have to ask why.

Here is where I think it could be argued that an attitude of white supremacy prevails.
A conservative white, who thinks racism is now impotent and the system now offers opportunity equally, must find some way to explain why blacks lag. Since it can't be racism or the system, it must be the irresponsibility, laziness, and immorality of the blacks themselves.
The more I look at it this is the root of most conservative arguments when dealing with issues of race.

To think that those who suffer are their own problem, while believing that you yourself are not enjoying any favoritism, that you have what you have simply by your hard work and aptitude, is inherently finding ones self superior.

Simply put, if the system is fair, and blacks lag while whites advance, than whites are simply superior to blacks.
Most would never say it, but most, whether they realize it or not, propogate that idea.

I, from experience, know that man for man (or woman), black and white are the same.
I know from experience, that as a group, life is much, MUCH, harder for black Americans.

Why?

I would be interested to know who the author of the quote is and in what context it was written. If the term is most useful I would naturally ask useful toward what ends?
Useful in helping white people understand the inequity in our system and history? No, we aren't ready to hear it.
Useful in mobilizing the left? No, it is no longer the 60's.

Useful in exposing the intellectual inconsistency of arguing that the system is fair, black people continue to fail, and not considering ones self racist?
Yes.

Color vs. Culture

2009-09-19T23:47:00.000-04:00

I read a blog today written by a mixed race man, explaining how his Grandmother hated his father’s race, but loved him (the grandson) despite him sharing his father’s DNA.
It seemed to be an illogical inconsistency in racial bias. Was it shared blood? Maybe.
More likely it’s more than that. Its race, plus culture.

I have written before about instances where one claims to have no racial bias, pointing to a black/white relative, who they love, as proof. How can one be racist when they truly love someone of a different color? Easy. Because it is really culture not color.

Many who claim to be racially blind will point to ideals or tendencies in the “others” culture that they see as unacceptable to their own, or detrimental to society at large. White people point to disproportionate crime rates, lower test scores, and unwed motherhood statistics as the root of what ails the black community. Racism is dead and no longer an issue. It’s their own shortcomings that hold them back now. Stop whining about racism and fix your own behavior… your own selves are the problem!

Many of the criticisms leveled by one race at another have a level of legitimacy. Single parenthood is a problem. Criminal behavior is a problem. Bad behavior is one’s own fault and consequences should be suffered.

But legitimacy of the accusations, or critiques, does not make one free of racial bias.

I would like for one race to find one single misbehavior, or social ill, that they see as a problem in another’s race, which is not also a problem in their own.

Does black or white have a monopoly on drug use, infidelity, or crime? Is either group free from hate, greed, or selfishness? The answer is obvious that any human or human group, at the root, is the same.

So when one finds themselves looking at numbers that skew one way or another at an unusual rate, or one begins to think that a particular problem is more prevalent in a single group, don’t stop there. Go the next step and ask the important question why? Why would a problem have a greater affect on one group rather than the other? Is it DNA or is it social?

If you think it DNA, we are done here. If it is cultural, then how did it get that way? How and when did our cultures form? What shapes who we are and what we find acceptable? If one does not identify with another group, ask why not. Ask what it is that separates one from another, and then go the next step and ask how that separation was created.

That is not racism that is cultural. Here is where culture gets tinged with race:

When one blames Hip-Hop for the poisoning of our youth’s morals but ignores Rock n’ Roll.
When one rants about the race based hate coming from the “others” but ignore when your own do the same.
When one ignores the color of a friend when they act in a way you approve of, but then wonder at or disparage the actions of the greater group.
When one cries out against crack use in the inner cities, but ignores the meth in the suburbs.

We are all the same. So ask yourself why things affect us differently? Are you looking out while ignoring the mirror?

Is it a black thing and Kanye West.

2009-09-16T09:55:00.000-04:00

Back before I even met my wife, I was asked a question.

A family I know had just returned from a Disneyland vacation. While there, they found themselves in a long line of mostly black people. After waiting in line for some time, they watched a small group of black kids trying to sneak in front of them in line. They were not really that sneaky and apparently no one made any attempt to stop them.

“Brohammas, you have been around black people before. Was this a black thing? Did everyone let them butt in front of us because we are white?” the mother asked in all sincerity.

This was years ago and I recall being somewhat stumped on how to answer. Not stumped because I didn’t have an answer, but more shocked at the question.
Why would the actions of these kids cutting in line be somehow related to race? Have you never seen a white kid do the same? Seriously?

Why did the family watch, closed mouth , expecting everyone else to do something? Why the expectation that bad behavior by black kids, was somehow out of your personal jurisdiction? Why not simply stand up for yourself and demand fairness? Did they assume all the black people knew each other and should police themselves, or were they simply intimidated, thinking any attempt to correct a black kid would rouse all the others to come to the defense?
Why would you assume they cut in front of you because of your race? Were they the last ones in line? Didn’t they in essence cut in front of all the black people behind you as well?

This memory came back to me, inspired by Kanye and Serena’s recent tirades. I have seen and heard observers ask similar questions. Its both sad and interesting to me that the actions themselves have nothing to do with race, but the reactions to the events are tainted by it.

I have not followed tennis seriously, but I do not recall anyone EVER attributing John Mcenroe’s behavior to his race. I’m not sure I have ever heard anyone reference Mcenroe’s race at all, unless it was in conjunction with a reference to a black player (ie Williams sisters).

Kanye West’s behavior set off an impressive flurry on twitter. Even more impressive is how quickly the “N” word was used and repeated. I do not care how badly you want to insult someone, or how much they deserve to be insulted, the use of that word is to insult someone because of their race.

Back to the Disneyland vacationers:
I would not consider myself tight with these folks, but close enough to have a general impression that they are good people. The question was asked honestly, not accusingly. An event occurred and they did not understand it. They are not the type that hate black people, or hate anyone for that matter. They would never consider themselves racist and would never give someone else reason to accuse them of racial hatred.

They are prime examples of today’s racial issues.

We are so inexperienced that ignorance prevails. Never thinking of race at all, but being intimidated and frustrated when dealing with it. Thinking all instances in which black people are involved is a result of race and representational of black people in general, or every isolated incident being a representation of a larger societal one. Better yet, many of these people do not think they attribute the actions to race while assuming all black people will defend other black people, no matter how wrong. Its a sort of blanket attribution, once removed. To call those with this mindset racist would shock them and be rejected, while at the same time placing representational burdens on all black people is inherently unfair.
That is where we are. Otherwise good people who simply don’t get it and thereby make things worse.

(on a related note I should mention that I have never kissed a dog on the mouth, find the idea of that repulsive, can dance and sing, can’t jump but know white guys who can, have never met anyone named Muffy, but I do wear boat shoes)

Thank you officer

2009-09-04T09:05:00.000-04:00

My wife woke me up at 5:30 this morning with a sharp elbow, saying someone was at the door. I stumbled down the stairs to find our neighbor, open Miller-Lite can in hand, talking about how he caught a guy breaking into our truck. Our other neighbor was at her door, we share a stoop, excitedly asking if the cops caught the guy. I excused myself to go put on pants, so I could join the fun outside.

I found the truck’s driver door open, we had mistakenly left the window open about three inches to let the air and passers-by into the cab. The center panel of the dash was off, the stereo was still there, the contents of the glove box were all over the passenger seat, and on the floor was a cell phone I have never seen before. Mr. Miller time told me how he saw the guy in the truck so he called 911, three times. A police car showed up coming the wrong way down our one way street, the burglar took off on a bicycle, and the cop went after him. Upon discovering the discarded phone, neighbor man began urging me to use it to call 911 again to get the cops back, or to call the last dialed number as he saw the guy in the truck using a phone.

I was scrolling through numbers in the phone when the cops came back.

The first guy back had a shaved head and a smirk on his face. “ya get ‘im?” inquired my also shaved headed, yet drunken, friend. “Yeah. Not me, but we got him down around the corner.” More cops began coming up the street, two squad cars in front of the house, one at the end of the block. They looked in the car again, asked me about how I left it, took the phone, and then began talking with each other about paperwork.

The original shaved head cop, who chased the burglar from the car, said, “we got the guy back in the car. You wanna work him over?” Two other cops who heard the offer volunteered, “Yeah, we didn’t see nothing”. My lady neighbor chuckled at the proposition saying, “not this guy. He aint’ one of those, not like us,” referring to me, as well as herself. She went back inside to put on coffee. The cops shrugged and asked the other neighbor, still nursing his beer, if he would come down to give a statement. “Naw, it’s his car,” again referring to me. A young cop smiled at the neighbor remarking, “5:30 and you’re still hangin in there?” “F you, I work third,” and he went back to his own stoop.

I agreed to go down to fill out the paperwork and crumpled myself into the unnapholstered back of a cop car. As the cop and I were in the elevator at the station I asked if that was a tazer in his belt. “He replied, “yeah, but I haven’t gotten to use it yet. Maybe if I can catch someone where no one can see.”

I answered two brief questions, signed my name at the bottom, and headed back home.
I was glad they caught the guy. The whole block is happy, the guy had gotten many of us before. I was grateful the cops showed up and caught him. Part of me wanted to take them up on their offer of some ‘alone time’ with the criminal, but the rest of me was thinking about the tazer, the offer, and what the morning would have been like if the cops were in a bad mood.

Coach

2009-08-30T01:17:00.000-04:00

Coach Birch was a towering man. He loomed over us, all powerful and all knowing. His word was final.

As a junior I was the smallest offensive lineman to take the field on any varsity team in our division, 175 lbs. The second week of practice I looked up at the depth chart taped to the wall of the locker room and saw my name, starting at weak side tackle. I was happy. I looked closer and saw my name was also listed as second string at every other position on the line. This made me nervous. It was a hard year.

That was Coach Birch’s first losing season, the school’s first in two decades. I and a few other underclassmen took the blame and we deserved it. Every week a senior, or some super sophomore, would try to take my spot. They never did, I was better. I was better than them, but rarely better than the other team. Long live competition!

Mid season, during practice, Birch exploded.

“D@#$! Brohammas! Pull your head out of your @$$ and play football. I swear you would do a better job for this team if you went and stood in the corner somewhere.”

Half the team stood still in fearful shock, while the other half snickered. I silently seethed as the only acceptable response would be improved play. It wouldn’t happen that day. That was one of those many days where body and mind could not agree. Practice ended and we all just went home.

Birch called that night. I had never heard him apologize to anyone before, in my mind he never needed too. He told me his words were out of line and he regretted them. He explained he had a bad temper, which we all knew, but he continued.

“I will continue to yell at you till you begin to play better. We need you to play better. I wish I knew a better way but I don’t. The problem is I know you are better than you are playing. You can do a lot better. Son, just know that I only yell because I still believe in you. If I ever stop yelling at you, it’s time to worry because that means I have given up on you.”

For all I know Coach had read this line in a Vince Lombardi quote book, but it worked. I gained more confidence from that phone call than anything before it. I was too young and hopeful to be properly skeptical. Sinicism takes years to develop. I believed every word of it.

That was roughly sixteen years ago. I have done many things, been many places, and known great people, but few had the impact he did. I still think about that call. I still think about those years. The older I get the less I speak of them, but their memory hasn’t dimmed. For good or bad, those years and that man are one of the cornerstones of who I am, part of the foundation I am built on.

Mariana Bracetti Academy, in the Kensington neighborhood of Philadelphia, was founded in 1999 and now has an enrollment of 1155 students (grades 6-12). They have never had a football team. We have equipment for thirty kids, but no blocking sled, it wasn’t in the budget. We will play in the public school league next year, but this season we are on our own. We have three games scheduled; maybe we can pick up another. Odds are we lose them all. I hate to lose. I hate it with a deep burning hate. We don’t even have a field. We will take the subway to a public field some blocks away for practice and all games will be “away”.

I enjoy evenings with my family. At the moment, my wife enjoys my company. Still, I often find myself thinking of Birch. I am better for having known him. I have explained my motivations to my wife but my words lamely fall flat. She says she understands, I’m sure she wants too. What I do know for sure is that starting next week, I will be smelling grass, wearing a whistle.

Where can I find a pair of those polyester shorts?

Crying wolf, keep the race card for special occasions

2009-08-25T23:53:00.000-04:00

Today’s battle for a better world in terms of interracial harmony is primarily a war for minds and hearts, or at least it should be. For the most part needed legislation has been enacted, protections are in place, and a prevailing idea that discrimination is unacceptable exists. While the legal work is mostly done, the battle at the real heart of the issue has been neglected. No one is fighting the battle for hearts and minds, the organs where racism generates.

White people think racism is for the most part, over. They may admit to themselves that there are still some racists lying around but they are mostly old people or Nazis, and neither should be taken too seriously. Now while they (we) think racism is mostly dead, there is the idea that there are sentinels standing on watchtowers on the lookout for racists. These lookouts have itchy trigger fingers and there is a fear that with the lack of real targets, pot-shots are being taken at anyone with an open mouth. Consequentially the general white populace no longer appreciates the work of the guards and digressed to living in fear of them. We are afraid that if we talk about race, or even recognize its existence, a shower of accusatory bullets will rain down from the ramparts. These white citizens in our post racial world are feeling oppressed and growing uneasy.
No matter your opinion on how justified this perception or attitude is, realize that it exists and paints all racial interactions with a conspicuous bull’s eye. How the two players interact, and the consequences of that interaction will determine how those players view all racial issues afterward. That is just how our minds work.

A few years ago I moved to Philadelphia and began working with the youth organization of a local church. What I saw was amazing. One young man, whom I will call Jay, had figured out quite well that there were lookouts ready to shoot and that they were on his side. He had also learned that his youth leaders were young white folk, inexperienced in dealing with black youth, and saw the ground littered with egg shells.

Jay was 17 years old and probably weighed 95 pounds. He did not have the money to dress nicely and spoke with a high pitched lisp. He obviously had little to no power in his daily life, but when interacting with these white folk, the guards made him power hungry. He did and said as he pleased. He never followed instructions, made lewd comments to grown women, and no adult ever corrected him. In observing this I had had enough. I stepped in when he made an indecent proposal and all the adults stood in shock as I scolded the youth for saying things he knew were wrong. He said a word unacceptable in a religious (or really any) setting and I sent him to the hallway.
During the interaction he did it. He tried to call for the guards,

“[Brohammas], you doin’ racism to me. Why you pickin on me? You a racist!”

I chuckled at his accusation, looked him in the eye, and told him I was the wrong guy to play that game with. I told him he knew he was wrong and… knock it off. He did. The other adults stood in shock that it was that easy. I’m sure they thought only I could have gotten away with it because of my wife, which isn’t true, any one of them could have said the same thing long before, but they didn’t know that. They still don’t.
No big deal here, stupid kid saying stupid things, that’s all. Problem is that really, most white people have a story like this, or at least they think they do, meaning a friend or a cousin had an instance like this, and it gets told around.

Stories of false accusations of racism are like brushfire in California; they travel fast, do a lot of damage, and whether it’s a threat or not it gets taken seriously. Stories like this hurt “the cause”.

In the mind of a person who thinks racism doesn’t exist these false, or even questionable, accusations just further entrench the belief that there are no justifiable complaints at all. The too oft pulling of the race card has two affects: one, the stifling of any honest discussion of race across racial lines, as the white people are afraid the card will be pulled and the guards will shoot, and two, the destroying of the race cards power for anything but trifling matters. In other words, any time the card is justified, be it a police beating, a loan denied unfairly, or a professional glass ceiling, all those who should take notice and learn, or even better ACT, will assume the this is simply another case of someone crying wolf and do nothing.

I know, it’s a hard thing to ask, and who am I to ask it, but if there is any doubt, and if you really want to make things better, don’t pull the card. Save it for a special occasion. Save it for a time when it will have some power, some affect. Racism is nowhere near dead, and pulling the card when it isn’t justified is helping keep it alive.

Interracial Dating

2009-08-13T10:47:00.000-04:00

The following is a response to a blogger asking why white men don't date black women. This is an old post, and since this time I have seen mixed couples, like mine, all over the place. Maybe the movie "Something New", had an influence, but I'd rather think that I'm simply a huge trend-setter.

You can read the original blog post and follow the conversation from back then, but I thought this could be entertaining over here as well. We are a slightly different audience.

http://siditty.blogspot.com/2008/09/calling-white-men-to-task.html

Now before we get too far I must add one thing that usually ends up irking" me when discussing interracial dating. Dating is a game of individuals and we should be very careful when interpreting the actions of one as a societal problem rather than a personal one. In other words, sometimes the two of you don't get along, or there is no mutual attraction, and it ISN'T race.

I said it, now here we go....

"Wow, I get to speak for all of us!
I'm game but just wait as I'm sure C1 or one of your many other readers will follow behind and disagree with me, completely blowing my spokesman status, not to mention the idea that all us white folk stick together (remember that is the secret to our success).

Now if that opening hasn't stirred up enough dust to distract you, I'll address the issue.

Rather I should say this is a whole bundle of issues. Race, gender, sex, and you even threw in age. We can not boil down an individual’s behavior in this/these instances to one issue or the other. They are all in play.

Different types of guys approach women in different ways and for different purposes. (remember I have been out of the game for 9 years now). "Type" can mean; white or black, marriage material or fling, shy or aggressive, racist or open minded, on and on and on.

A scuzz ball will proposition anyone/thing they think they have a chance at, and a few they think are out of their league. This is a guy who has no long term plans and as a result has little time for build up flirtation and gets right down to business. He may get shot down often and does not mind as much, he’s playing the numbers game in hopes it will pay off. This white guy will probably approach a Shaquanda, Becky, Ming Lee etc. and usually do it in some potentially offensive or sexual way. Now it should be mentioned here that I have known many white girls, who confuse a direct approach from a black man with the scuzz ball, earning said black man a style of rejection he may not deserve… or a measure of success with the types of white girls he isn’t quite ready for.

I will admit here, in this section, that Scuzz ball may very well be more inclined to ask Shaquanda than Becky. I have heard white guys say or imply black women are looser than uptight little Becky. Of course these are rarely guys who have any first hand knowledge, pride themselves in simply not being afraid to “tell it like it is”, and in regards to their racism I must repeat, THEY ARE SCUZZ BALLS.

You say the guys you are actually attracted too insert themselves into the “friend zone”. I am usually skeptic of any man who is great, close friends to a girl/girls. I know I’m a jerk, sexist. Whatever, but in my experience these guys are usually just lurking, waiting for their shot at someone in the group. Not lurking in a shark way but in a Duckie way. They are a little afraid, awkward maybe, but generally good guys that just don’t quite exert themselves like other alpha males. Rather than flexing the shoulder, they offer it for you to cry on. You call him a pansy, he may be, but at some point in life, most guys have dabbled with the friend zone and learned from it.

Can race play a role here? SURE it does. It may not be right, but white people are ingrained with the idea that black people hate us. This friend guy is already not the type to meet social challenges head on within his own race, so of course he isn’t going to do so cross-racially. Is he racist? I don’t know, that is a whole other conversation about how much greater society’s racism and connected responsibility filters down to an inexperience individual. But the friend zone guy lacks some confidence and social finesse. Race would naturally magnify that.

Now we will take what for lack of better terms I will call “normal” guy. The guy who may have actually enjoyed high school, has had a girlfriend before, may or may not have dabbled in the friend zone and or the scuzz ball stage, and most likely fits your ideal white guy caste. He may have been a scuzz ball and is now tired of that scene and ready for a real relationship. He may have dabbled in the friend zone and got his shirt sloppy with mascara, followed by a handshake and the door. Now he finds himself in a high stakes game where rejection may be a little more personal, the pay off is long term, and catching someone worth keeping may be tricky. –I should insert here that “old guy” may be a scuzz ball, or a scuzz ball who played around during his prime and now finds himself a bit desperate, tired of games and more willing to take a risk, or once again…a scuzz ball. I mean to a scuzz ball, young+black must = easy right???-

Back to normal guy.

Most white guys, if they are used to white girls who don’t like scuzz balls, are forced to play a little cat and mouse game in an attempt to show interest, but not desperation, all the while trying to prove they are not a scuzz ball. This is the ploy of the movie Swingers three day rule to call a girl (of course T is a scuzz ball trying to pose as a normal guy while Mikey is trying to bust out of the friend zone mode). Call too soon = scuzz ball. Normal guy usually has options as well. Of course he does, or he should appear that he does, because no girl worth having should feel she was a last ditch effort, or the figurative last one picked for kickball.

If we assume he does have options race will probably come into play big time. Once again I go back to the notion that black people hate white people. Add to that the scarcity of WM /BF couples. If we back out the WM who is interracially experienced or specifically seeking out a black woman, this would seem a large hurdle to overcome. If he has other options the easy way out would be to go there, or, this must be an Alpha male indeed who is looking to prove something, or, this black girl must be unusually HOT and worth the risk. (my wife is/was unusually hot)

All this being said there will always be the curve ball guy who doesn’t fit any category. I cannot account for him. The games we are forced to play in trying to lure a mate may be different from one geography to another, the same it may be from one culture (be it class or race) to another. In the culture I was raised in the only acceptable way, to not be a scuzz ball, was to play the long drawn out flirtation dance over a period of time, be it hours days or months.

The first time I saw a black man use the verbal, direct, or in my view at the time, overly forward approach, and not get the scuzz ball treatment, I was astounded and a bit jealous. This was not part of my culture in either the presentation or the reception. When I met the woman who would be my wife and I decided to give it a try, I could not bring myself to attempt the, what in my mind was the overly direct/forward approach, because it was not me. I could not try to be something that is not me, especially when it comes to attracting someone you really hope will be attracted to you.

This has been the longest response in history, you are probably sleeping, and you asked for it.

I know here it comes…. Bring the heat.

Communication

2009-08-10T12:34:00.000-04:00

Eric

2009-08-08T13:17:00.000-04:00

Eric was a kid I've known for about three years or so. A good kid, one of the more respectful and pleasant guys in the group. Preston would drop by his house once a month or so just to see how he was doing. They would sit down stairs, talk about sports, talk about church, talk about school.
We come in contact with lots of kids, they come and go. Some cause trouble, most ooze apathy, but not Eric. If he was there, he was present. He was awake and connected. That is not the norm for most of the 16 year olds we deal with.
I liked him.

While reading the paper today I came across this:

"About 3:35 p.m., police said, Eric Dixon and Hector Soto, both 16, ended up in a fistfight at the playground, on Lehigh Avenue near 4th street, after they exchanged a few cross words, apparently over a girl.
The fight ended quickly, with Dixon falling to the ground, unconscious. Less than an hour later, he died at Temple University Hospital from unspecified injuries suffered during the scuffle, homicide investigators said...

[Eric's Grandfather was quoted at the scene a few hours later] It was another senseless killing. There will probably be another one tomorrow, and you'll be talking to another family."

This is a young man who was not out running the streets causing trouble. Yesterday would be just like any day in the life of any 16 year old boy anywhere in the country, except the ending.
He deserves more than just a blurb in the ever so present murder section of our Daily News. He will be addd to the list of statistics and it is not fair. He is not a number, he is not one of the notorious "them".

I'm sitting here at the keyboard, have been sitting here motionless for at least ten minutes.
I have nothing else to say.

Guilty

2009-08-04T23:53:00.001-04:00

My young friend was found guilty today of aggravated assault and robbery.
He was identified by the victim the night of the crime (which happened outside at 10:30 pm), the arresting officer said he found the stolen cell phone on his person, the victim claimed the young man punched him in the face, fracturing his jaw and cheek bone.

I'm sure the victim and the cop think he is the one who did it.

I'm sure he is guilty of being a stupid 15 year old. I'm also sure he isn't capable of punching his way through a wet paper bag... he didn't even have the strength to flatten out his back when in a three point stance.

They never asked me what I thought.

In the Deep End

2009-07-31T11:21:00.000-04:00

Saying, “I don’t know why I continue to do things like listen to Glenn Beck,” seems the easy way to begin this but it wouldn’t be true. I know why I do. It’s the same reason I write this blog. I have ideas that formulate a mind frame, and in order to maintain perspective, I search out dissenting opinions and offer mine, to try to keep a balance. I am making a feeble effort to ensure I don’t drift over the edge, even though many are convinced I have already done so.

“Brother” Beck would be one to think I didn’t drift but dove. He went on TV proclaiming his belief that our President is a racist. He isn’t the first person I have heard say that. He cites Obama’s calling of the actions by a Boston police office “stupid”, his attending Rev Wright’s church, and…….? Beck has reached a conclusion and now he is preaching it. Glenn, what do you really know about this stuff? I would really like the answer to this question.
I listened to Beck go on a rant, citing scripture, that a man must be punished for his OWN sins, and not those of his father. He insinuates that the racial divide that exists today is caused by black people wanting to punish white people for historical instances. He moaned about how he has done nothing and now the govt., now our president, wants to punish and blame him for everything.

Really?

Mr. Beck is this about you? I got t o thinking about a series of things that I have seen or read somewhat recently, NOT delving into history. I would ask what in this list of things has to do with Mr. Beck, or the greater white aka “American” people he speaks to and for?

Ask yourself how equal is today’s playing field?

Can you be arrested in your own home if the only thing you have done is insult a police officer?

A bunch of kids were instantly kicked out of a private pool for “safety” reasons. The initial concern was the “complexion and atmosphere” of the club’s pool. A member of the club asked “why are all these black kids here”.

Black Phila police officers are suing the website domelight.com, an online forum for Phila police officers, for hosting racist comments. The owner says it has nothing to do with who comments and refused to edit racist commenters. The website was/is a bastion of racist remarks and only open to Police officers.

A PA state senator, who happens to be a former police officer, while waiting in traffic, saw an old man being arrested. He saw the officer pull a stack of money out of the suspects pocket, place it on the hood where the wind proceeded to blow it away. The senator got out and asked if he could help. The officer told him to get his black a—back in his car. The senator informed the cop he wasn’t the right person to talk to that way and so the cop arrested him for disorderly conduct. Turns out the old man was being arrested for driving a “stolen” car… which he owned and the money was his cashed paycheck.

My wife while driving with her sister was pulled over for having a broken taillight. The officer told her both her lights weren’t working, crumpled the ticket in his hand, and threw it at her through the window.

Audra Shay is elected chair of the young Republicans after she posted “you tell ‘em” to a wall post urging us to take our country back from all these coons on Facebook.

In Jersey the Republican candidate was involved in a dispute with neighbors where he was quoted as saying “if you want to act like Ni---- go back to Paulsboro.” When asked about the incident he responded that he did say that, he added that it’s his freedom of speech, and nothing is wrong with what he said under certain circumstances.

Pat Buchanan said on MSNBC that he has no problem with the majority of supreme court judges being white because white men built this country and white men died invading Normandy. He claimed Sonia was unqualified for the supreme court because she was just an affirmative action selection.

I watched a fox and friends host say that Americans are less happy because they are not a pure race like the Swedes, because Americans marry other “species”.

Jack Wiswall, who just retired as the luxury products division pres of Lo’real, was successfully sued for ordering the firing of a black counter manager. When questioned on this order due to the managers superior performance, he retorted “Da—n it” get me one that looks like this ” pointing to a blonde counter manager.

Sheri Goforth, an executive assistant to Republican senator Diane Black received complaints after sending an email forward from her office entitled “Historical Keepsake Photo” that displayed a picture of every president from Washington to W. Bush, then a black square with two Scooby Doo eyeballs in Obama’s place. When asked if she regretted sending it or could see what was wrong with it, she replied she only regretted sending it to the wrong email list. She received no disciplinary action.

Rusty DePas,a Republican activist responded to a news story about an escaped gorilla by commenting that the gorilla was “probably one of Michele Obama’s ancestors”. When questioned on his comparison he responded “that was her comment, not mine”. Efforts to uncover any comments by Mrs. Obama regarding gorillas were unsuccessful.

Obama curious George T-shirts sells out at a Georgia bar.

Political cartoon depicts a cop shooting a gorilla and remarking “now someone else will have to write the stimulus package.”

I watched a video of an Oakland cop shooting an unarmed black man who was sitting helpless on a train platform while others watched. It was possibly the most disturbing thing I have ever watched.

I watched a video of Phila police officers entering a corner store, locating all the security cameras and cutting the power chords, (except the one they missed that recorded it all). The team of officers then proceeded to take the money from the register and various snacks.

A Phila police officer lost his job after using the N word regularly in talking about black people to a college reporter who was riding along for the day.

It may seem I am picking on Republicans and Cops here, but rather than pointing out a slant in the examples provided, pause a moment and realize all these were taken from mainline news sources. Say what you want about media bias, these things still happened, the reporters didn’t commit the acts.

What conclusion would you come to observing these things? Is Mr. Beck really the one who should be upset and feel besieged?
What do you think?

Train of Thought

2009-07-25T22:03:00.000-04:00

I saw a commercial for a new cartoon today. At first I thought it was for Family Guy. There was a clip animated in the same obvious style, but there was a father and son, both black. I don’t watch Family Guy so I paid little attention, till the closing shot.
It closed with a family shot, an animated black family, and a “coming soon” sort of voice over.
My first thought, an instant thought, was, “why are they doing a black Family Guy” spin-off? That is some obvious pandering and I can hear the “age of Obama” complaints now.
Then it occurred to me that I never thought, “look, a white family” the first time I saw Family Guy. Why would I instantly think that an all black family on a cartoon would be pandering? Was it because it was from the same animators as the original?
That’s messed up that the image of a black family on TV would evoke any sort of knee jerk reaction, let alone such a cynical one. What does that say about our society? What does that say about me?
I wonder how many other white people had the same involuntary reaction at this commercial as I did? Worse question is how many of those white people later realized how sad and wrong such a reaction is…. even if the cartoon is in fact pandering.

This whole train of thought took about ten seconds. My wife in the kitchen, had she been watching me at the time, would have had no idea what was in my head, if anything at all. I’m sure I looked like an imitation of Al Bundy in front of the TV.

Its Hard To Say, but I Wouldnt Be So Quick to Defend the System

2009-07-18T10:53:00.000-04:00

I spent an afternoon at the Philadelphia Family court house waiting to see if my young friends case was going to trial. The courthouse has four football field sized waiting rooms in which people sit on benches waiting to be called into the courtroom. I took the time to wander from room to room and observe.
Looking at the people here raised a lot of questions. The answers to the questions are not obvious.

At first it seemed I was the only white person here. After the third person asked me if I was a lawyer I realized there were a few white people, but they were all wearing nice suits and carrying legal pads, or wearing a badge and a blue uniform. I thought I must be seeing things wrong so I made a few more rounds over the next couple hours.

I did not see one white face sitting on a bench with a worried or tired look. Not one out of thousands.

I looked at the cops. There were plenty of black and white but I noticed the white ones more. Maybe it was the cop with flames tattooed all the way up both fore –arms, or maybe the one with a skull clearly visible just below his elbow. I know this is 2009, everyone has a tattoo, and this is Philly where being a cop means someone will shoot at you sooner or later, so a little ‘grit’ is to be expected. But I started keeping track. There were more white cops that had tattoos than those who didn’t. What made it more interesting is that I saw no tattoos on any black officers. Interesting.

Lawyers were easy to spot. They were male and female, middle aged or late 20’s, but all well dressed, and all seemed comfortable in their surroundings.

So what?

So what if some white cops are tatted up and all the people awaiting trial are black? I have often been told you cannot judge a book by its cover and I have learned enough about people to know you can never know someone’s motivations just by looking from the outside, but that’s all I had here.

Here is what I do know.

I grew up in an extremely stable, middle class, all white neighborhood and people got arrested all the time. On top of that I saw people doing things that should have got them arrested on a regular basis. Granted this was thousands of miles from here but am I to assume no white kids commit crimes here in Philly? Was it that the jurisdictions here are all black so it’s a natural consequence of the racial makeup of the area? Nope, I live in this area and there are no minorities for blocks and blocks. Now I do see cop cars in my neighborhood but they are always parked in front of a home, a barbershop, or a diner. I don’t see patrols, yet I did see some twelve year olds smoking pot at the local park the other day.

Again I am not claiming to know the ‘why’ to what I observe, but I did, and do, see it. Do you think I am the only one? What impression do you suppose my young black friend gets when he sees these same things?

Let’s assume for a moment my young friend is innocent. He is taken to a place where all the “bad guys” are black like him. White cops all look scary and mean, a bunch of rich looking people argue with each other about his fate, and he has little to no control of it all. What assumptions do you suppose this 16 year old will make about our world? What lessons are being taught?
I will not call tattooed cops racist. I do not assume all these black kids are innocent. I do not think all lawyers are rich blood suckers. I will not assume these things, but how can I expect an immature black youth NOT to?

What picture has been painted before him and what hope is portrayed?

His Mom is single, has four more little kids in the house whom she supports by working temp jobs. Is it reasonable to expect her to make note of what her son may be observing and then encourage him to not look on the surface? Why would I expect her to give any of these people the benefit of the doubt?

I’m taking extra time because I believe in this kid. I think it’s important to see some white faces who really are on his side. I have to explain to him that wearing that tie makes a difference in a judges eye the same way those tattoos make an impression in his. I have to explain to him that white cops see a sea of black faces sitting in those benches and it makes an impression that affects how they see him when he’s on the streets.

I have been told and taught that race does not matter. After seeing the scene at the family court, after knowing the circumstances of this kid’s life, can I say race doesn’t matter in his life?” How do I teach him not to judge while at the same time warning him that he is being judged all the time?

More Than Just a Color

2009-07-13T21:40:00.000-04:00

I’m sitting in my upstairs office reading and reflecting. The black kids who were kicked out for “safety” reasons are now being asked to return to the pool. There have been no communicated adjustments to remedy the safety concern, but there is a law suit.

A potential Supreme Court justice is sitting before congress and her past words and views are being scrutinized.

My young friend who is navigating the wrong end of the justice system has a final court date early next month and things are looking better. Turns out the original police report corroborates my friend’s story which will most likely lead to an acquittal and the question as to why this has taken over six months. I think his cousin did it.

Another friend is questioning her faith not because of doctrine but social issues. She hasn’t said as much but race has something to do with it. Not directly, but those with whom she has issue, all share the same complexion.

The kids are sleeping, my wife has yet to return from her day trip to New York and I’m listening to Jack Johnson. Whenever I listen to Jack I mentally wander off into lamenting that I have never learned to surf. I always wanted to, but never lived near a beach. My mother in law once told me of how she used to go by the beach all the time while in L.A. I asked her if she ever wanted to surf and she replied, with a surprisingly thoughtful look on her face, “naw, that was always just for white boys.”

Swimming pools, Supreme Court, the justice system, church, and surfing; none of them are really about race. When you add race to all these things you have an added layer of complexity and issues. Sure I could try to ignore it but no matter if I do, my wife will still be black. I will still be white. One day my daughter will realize that those two things aren’t just a color.

Bad Math

2009-06-29T09:41:00.000-04:00

A+B+C+D=275

In math you cannot know the sum before you know all the numbers to be added.

If you pre-suppose the sum is ten, then find the added numbers are 5, 3, 2, and 2, you are wrong. You cannot simply throw out one of the 2s to make yourself correct.

It is ridiculous in math yet we do it all the time in social situations.

We all have opinions and make generalizations whether it be about class, race, gender, age, whatever. We think we know the sum but very few make an attempt to find the individual digits to be added up.

Of course I know white/black people, I see them everywhere. I know because I watch, I pay attention. So goes perception.

I can look at a number 9, but if there is no context, I'll never know if the paper is upside down. Now if I can find 3+3+3 then I know it is in fact a 9.

What happens more often is people find 3+3 and then try to make up another 3, rather than accept that they might be wrong. Rarely does one consider the 6.

Most of us don't really want to know the answers, we only want to know if we are right.

The more I ponder this, the more I think I'm right, which helps prove my point.

Winston Churchill

2009-06-19T13:50:00.001-04:00

Mormon Rapper?

2009-06-15T20:24:00.000-04:00

Check out this article about a friend of mine... ignore the white guy.
http://sct.temple.edu/blogs/murl/2009/06/14/logan-the-unwritten-word/

Who's Keeping Track?

2009-06-14T17:39:00.000-04:00

Perception is not always reality.

I have an idea for an exercise. It might be uncomfortable but my curiosity is getting the better of me.
I write under a broad generalization that the average American does not have much meaningful interracial or intercultural interaction.

Is this true?

Not only is this true for others but is it true for me?

What I propose is that starting Monday, we start keeping track. The more detailed the better. Keep track, mentally if that is most appropriate, written if needed, of the race or ethnicity of everyone around you in every situation. Now I know that we may not know the actual racial background of all we see, or the ethnicity of the guy crossing the street while you are pulling into the parking lot, but for this experiment just guess. Do this for an entire week and next Sunday, report what you found.

I know, I know, race isn’t supposed to matter and many are uncomfortable paying attention to this sort of thing. Others may seem to pay attention to little else. Either way, as with most things, an occasional closer look can be revealing. You may find you were right, you may not. Sometimes you could be both right and wrong.

Take the church I attend as an example.
I once heard another member describe it as predominantly African-American. I always thought it was more 50/40/10, black, white, Latino. I was unsure who was right, so before opening my mouth, I decided to investigate.
The next Sunday I counted. I sat in a place where I could see almost everyone and took notes. There were about 170 people there, 80 white, 80 black, and 10 Latino. I kept track for a couple other Sundays just to see if that one day was a fluke and found the numbers remained fairly steady. I was ready to claim a victory (in my mind as I told no one what I was doing or even that I disagreed with the original person’s description), till today. Today I attended a Sunday school class I do not normally attend. The same one that other member usually attends. This class had about 5 white people, 12 black people, and two Latino. That class would surely be seen as predominantly black. I think it was worth noting that this Sunday school class would be where more actual interaction takes place.
Seems we were both, in a way, right.

I think it would be an interesting topic for discussion, and if enough of us participate we may find some norms. At the very least, you may find if your own perception of your surroundings is accurate. A reality check of sorts.

I think it would be useful to share with each other. Most of us see our own existence as indicative of the norm and somehow exceptional at the same time. Reading what others find will also help us understand others as well.

Who is willing?
(you can comment anonymously, not everyone is comfortable with this sort of thing)

the "other" side

2009-06-05T12:52:00.001-04:00

Invisible Man, Soul Man, and Black Like Me all try to show white Americans what it is like to be black in The United States. One is a metaphor, two are chronicles of white men going undercover, one fictional one not. I found another way to learn the same lesson, maybe more powerful, surely more modern.

When leaving lily white Sandy Utah, a suburb of Salt Lake City, people told me Atlanta was a black city. I did not realize how black till I stepped out of a panel van with my luggage at the corner of Ashby and Bankhead.

I looked like no one else. Just in case I was unaware of how much I stood out, people would stare at me everywhere I went and occasionally children would loudly point out my race. Billboards were different, they had black people on them. Not just the ads on busses but everything. Even the two greatest icons of whiteness, Jesus and Santa Claus, appeared black hanging on the walls of people's homes. I did not own a TV but they were everywhere and all tuned to shows like Moesha or Martin. I did not have a radio but everyone else did. Not once did I hear a screaming guitar lick or even a folksy ballad. What I did hear was a beat, sometimes smooth horns, and lots of rapping or singing. No rock style screaming.

It was fascinating at first. I was not used to the attention and enjoyed talking and learning with everyone I met. The fascination soon wore out and got tiring.

I lost my identity and just became the white guy. I could not have a conversation without race being brought up. I had other things to talk about, there was more, but I was rarely allowed to get there. Police regularly stopped me to ask if I was lost or needed help. When they found where I lived they would call me names and predict my needing their help soon. A few promised my surely needed help would not come from him, because I was just asking for trouble by being in this neighborhood.

I felt vulnerable and scrutinized all the time. I got used to it and achieved some comfort, but it never completely went away.

Occasionally I would get what would seem a brief rest when visiting white areas or white friends. Not really. White strangers would not, could not relate to my experience and I had no reason to feel I was anything like them. Friends and family would often joke about some new mannerisms and tastes, claiming I now thought myself black. They questioned my awareness of my own identity.

I found this ironic since I had never been aware of my whiteness before entering this black world. Once in that world, everyone and everything reminded me that I was in fact white. This new self awareness was met with other whites questioning who I thought I was. It was very lonely. I lived there roughly two years. It was almost 12 years ago.

I still haven’t forgotten those days and I still visit.
I remember those lonely days when I hear a white person question why the black kids sit together in the cafeteria or ask why there would be such things as historically black colleges. I remember it when I listen to some white person complain about what words they aren’t allowed to say or how it is unfair that a network named BET is allowed to exist.

I think about those days often and how small that area is geographically compared to the whole country. I realize that without me making a real effort, I will never experience that again. I realize how easy it was for me to leave that black world and retreat back to my white one. My white world is all over. It seams to just be wherever I am, and I move a lot.

I realize that for those who don’t look like me, that period of life, the one where they are the outsider who sticks out, IS their life.

I got worn out after six months, what does one do after 40 years?

HAIR

2009-05-25T22:32:00.000-04:00

If you want the area where the worlds of black and white diverge the furthest, I vote hair.

Hair is big business in both of these worlds and a big part of most people’s personal life. It takes time to groom, money to style, is a form of expression, and a part of how we tend to judge others. With this in mind, let’s talk a little bit about how race and hair intersect… or rather how they don’t…or both.

Most white people in general know nothing of the world of African-American Hair. To give you a small idea of the place hair has in African-American culture I should mention that the first women to become a millionaire by her own merits was a black woman (C.J. Walker) who started a company producing hair care products for African American’s. This was around 1908, a time when black people were discriminated against and excluded from most anything that could lead to success. It’s a big deal.
Now if you are new to interracial discussion, even if you are not so new, I would suggest that on the subject of hair it is best for most of us white people to simply listen, ask occasional questions, but avoid like the plague any exclamations or declarations.
The things you find out may surprise you but shouting out something is crazy or stupid will very likely end in violence. Like I said, hair is a big deal.
If you listen you will learn all about hot irons, weaves, microbraids, Koreans, relaxer, wigs, all sorts of things. Many white people are completely unaware that microbraids are hardly ever someone’s real hair. White people are clueless that so many black women, even younger ones, wear wigs. Just today I listened to a group of black women argue loudly over whether or not Oprah’s hair was weave.
These are mostly issues of style and preference and are interesting or even mildly amusing. But it can be much more than that.

Hair in the black community is loaded with extra judgments. All of us are judged by our looks, no matter our color, but it is deeper than that for African-Americans. Believe me when I say white people do not realize this. There is no equivalent in the white community, some of the terms may be the same, but the depth is no where near.

“Good hair,” does not simply mean well behaved tresses but carries an implication of a person’s heritage and worthiness in society. “Bad hair”, or any description like it, can become a despising of blackness itself. Imus knew this well enough to in essence call the Rutgers women’s basketball team a bunch of N@#$$ without actually saying the word.

Hair can be an expression of not just your style but your politics. Afro’s or “naturals” connection to the Black Panthers and the black power movement is well recognized. Less known across racial lines is the recently watered down expression behind dreadlocks. Popularized by Rastafarians who were rejecting Europeanized standards of straight hair were letting their hair grow and matte itself naturally. Dreadlocks were a symbol of returning to one’s African roots, mimicking the roots of a tree. White kids listening to reggae and celebrating drug culture missed all this meaning and have gone to great lengths to grow a hairstyle foreign to their own heads, all the while missing the rich irony.

I should mention here that dreadlocks are usually lengths of hair twisted or rolled together till they begin to grow that way, not braided. If I hear one more sports commentator call cornrows “dreadlocks” when talking about NBA players I may just gouge my own eyes out.

Black people don’t realize how little they know about white people and hair either.

We say “good hair” too, but there are no deeper meanings. It is just a description of hair, that’s all. Many, many, white women spend hours, many hours, styling their hair. There is no standard of whether curly or straight is better, or rather I should say there is no persisting notion other than those fluctuations dictated by style magazines and the fashion world. Many women with straight hair spend fortunes on perms. When white people say “perm” they are talking about making hair curly, not the other way around.
Most white women don’t have weave, and if they do, they will never admit it. Publicly accusing a white woman of wearing weave would be a social knife to her back.
What may seem like just plain old hair to a black person is very likely an actual style that took hours to accomplish. White people take great care to look as if they don’t try but keep in mind that they have to try and try EVERY day. There is no such thing in the white world, even a perm, as a hairstyle that last weeks. Every morning white folks start from scratch.

Most black people are generally unaware of the many variations in Caucasian hair types. We come in all sorts of colors and textures. Our hair does not smell like wet dog when wet and having curly hair does not indicate some sort of racial mixing in one’s genealogy. Blonde vs. brunette issues are well known among all, and most blondes are not naturally blonde. I, a lifelong white person, have still yet been able to accurately describe a hair color I simply call “hair color”. I have heard it called “dishwater blonde” or “dirty blonde”, I think it looks sort of grey, that mid tone between yellow and brown. I don’t know why I add this, other than to communicate that there is enough variation that we haven’t named it among ourselves.

It may be unfortunate, but we white people generally tease redheads. Red hair is not automatically cool, usually quite the opposite (most black people don’t know this). Despite this many white people with brown or blonde hair will call themselves red heads. They are not completely delusional, as many people have reddish highlights when the light is just so, yet having some way to uniquely describe yourself is of high importance, even if it means declaring oneself a red-head.

Consider this intercultural hair 101. In course 201 we will discuss the social implications of facial hair between black and white. As homework, try to find a corporate professional white man with facial hair, then try to find a corporate professional black man without facial hair. You may find it interesting.

Story From 2002

2009-05-19T18:56:00.001-04:00

There is something in my male ego that wouldn’t let me act afraid. I think the fact that I didn’t know Brooks that well kept me from saying “no”. Whatever it was, I found myself at the summit of Emigration Canyon prepared to ride a skateboard into the night. I had planned to spend the evening watching T.V.

I had sweaty palms and weak knees but still, there I was, prepared to push off down a canyon road at nine p.m. simply because I didn’t want to look like a punk in front of some new friends.
The plan was that two of us would board while the third would follow in the car to both provide light with the headlights, and warn oncoming traffic of our approach. These guys hadn’t done this before either but had heard the idea is to keep your speed in check by turning as much as possible and just before you get going too fast you simply jump off the board and hit the ground running as the board coasts into the embankment. They didn’t question the plan, so I kept my mouth shut about any doubts.

I began weaving back and forth crossing both lanes, using as much of the road as possible. I could feel the vibrations in my feet as rough asphalt passed under the wheels. The wind was cold on my face as I began leaning harder into the turns. My heart beat faster, adrenaline was flowing, and an uncontrollable grin spread across my face. I loved it. As the road got steeper I picked up more speed.

I was at the point where I should be jumping off. I didn’t. I wanted to see how far I could push it. With my pulse racing I began to eye the snow banks along the side of the road, planning to use one to break my eventual fall. With an escape route in mind I let gravity take its course. I began to put real distance between me and the other rider. I left him, the car, and the headlights behind. I took comfort in the ever present piles of snow that seamed to glow in the night, and went just a little faster.

I had to lean hard as the turns got tighter, the fall was coming. I watched in horror as the reflective snow gave way to a steel guardrail. Guardrails mean steep drop offs and I briefly cursed myself for being brave. I had no choice but to take this one last turn and try to stay upright. I crouched low and leaned hard.

That was about two months ago. My hands have healed nicely barely leaving any scars. I never did go get my wrist checked out; I can finally put enough pressure on it to do a push-up. The guys called me again the other night but I had already proved myself. The pressure to protect my manhood was gone. This time I went because I wanted to.

My wife bought me my own longboard for my 27th birthday.

Longboards

2009-05-19T18:53:00.000-04:00

What do I call "them"?

2009-05-18T10:55:00.000-04:00

I have had many well meaning white people ask me how African-Americans prefer to be addressed. To which I respond, “depends on the person. You should ask them.”

While this is true, I’m not authorized to speak for anyone else, that answer ignores what the questioner really wanted to know. In the name of being helpful here are a few easy tips.

Start with African-American. This is the most PC, is generally safe, and where you should start if you have any doubts. The term can be seen as a bit too formal or official, or someone may just not like the term, but it is not offensive.
If someone wants to be called something else, they will let you know.

My wife describes herself as “black”. There is nothing wrong with a white person saying the word black. I once watched an inexperienced white person try to describe another person who was black. We all knew the one being described was black and I chuckled as the describer used every description he could think of, except the color of his skin, to describe him. Once this awkward profile was given I asked the guy being described if he was black. “Yup”, he replied. “You cool with that?” I asked. “Of course,” was his reply. The original describer looked at me in horror as I asked these questions. He was obviously not comfortable even mentioning race in mixed company. He is not alone.

Now between black and African-American, the latter is safer. It’s an easy rule, now relax.

But don’t relax so much that you turn off your brain and do something regrettable.
Remember black is an adjective, not a noun. My wife is a black woman, not a black. She is a person not a color and if you call her something that describes her as less than a person don’t expect to be friends. I’m sure you wish to be considered human as well.

Just because someone else says it doesn’t mean you can too.

Your Mom tried to teach you this about all sorts of things while you were young. Where most of us go wrong in bringing this early life lesson to racial names is we tend to think of the “If all your friends were jumping off a cliff would you want to do that too?” speech. Jumping off cliffs is stupid and no one should do it. What we should recall is the “Just because I do (A) doesn’t mean you can too. You are too (young, small, whatever)”.
In other words, just because you hear a black person use a certain “N” word, does not make it O.K. for you. EVER!
You can have your opinion on if black people should say that word, but keep it to yourself. A white person telling a black person their opinion on black people using the “N” word would be like me telling some strange woman what underwear she should wear; its none of my business, has nothing to do with me, and is just generally inappropriate.

Now I know most of you black people don’t need my help in addressing white people but let me add my two cents.
Stop using displays of stereotypical behavior as proof of whiteness and stating it out loud in mixed company. As in, “look at him dance, you know he’s white.”

The word white is not synonymous with: nerd, slow, smart, rich, rhythmically challenged, lame, uptight, lack of jumping ability, racist, or even Republican. Using it as such, even when being funny, only confuses white people and deepens the wedge between our groups.

Just realize that no matter how different you think “they” are, you are talking to a person. Treat them like one.

Put Me In Coach!

2009-05-11T12:52:00.000-04:00

A little something for baseball season.

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-10T05:43:00.000-04:00

Sorry Mom. I love you but...

I love my wife.

She is my favorite person.

My daughters are lucky to have her.

I am even luckier.

Luck is the only answer,

unless you consider
God.

I love you Kahalia.

Message to the NAACP, Jesse, Al, and anyone else who says they care

2009-05-07T20:48:00.000-04:00

check out Brohammas guest blogging at
http://theapronstage.com/2009/05/08/more-captain-hook-than-peter-pan/

I learned a few things while broken down in traffic the other day.
When I say “broken down” I mean broken. One of the front wheels fell off the car. As if this wasn’t fun enough it was downtown right at the start of rush hour. I called a tow truck and then spent the next three hours standing in the road about 50 yards behind the immobile vehicle trying to direct traffic into the other lane. I may need to remind some people that I live in Philadelphia. This is the land of the car horn and I’m pretty sure the term “curses like a sailor” should be updated to “curses like a Philly motorist”. When I told the mechanic what I had done he looked at me in horror and said, “I woulda ran and hid around the corner telling folks, that aint my car.”
With that as a backdrop, here is what I learned:

Men like to diagnose problems.
When I got to the mechanic I brought with me 7 votes for a broken rocker arm, 5 votes for broken axle, and 9 votes for busted ball joint. It was the ball joint.

Women like to empathize. “Ohhhh honey,” was the most common phrase.

You cannot tell the race of a person by what they drive. I saw plenty of black people in trucks with big tires and white folks with shiny rims. There was no pattern, no trend.
Here is the big lesson…

Most people are very cooperative if they understand what is going on.

I had broken down right in front of an intersection, thankfully not in the intersection, on a two lane, one way city street. Traffic was backing up. I was standing in the middle of the lane trying to make eye contact with drivers and motioning them over into the open lane. I was clearly not a traffic cop, they don’t wear seersucker ties with tan pin striped pants (that’s another story). Occasionally I got the middle finger or an earful as people approached, followed by an apology as they saw the state of the vehicle ahead. A bunch of people offered to help me push the car up on the sidewalk, till they saw the wheel and then usually exclaimed “Holy ---- !” followed by condolences.
Most people, the vast majority of people, simply nodded, put on their blinker, and tried to get in the other lane. Usually, someone would let them.
Every now and then someone would be on a cell phone, or be impatient, and would nearly run me over as they sped right up behind the immobile vehicle. They would then be forced to try and go around, without enough room to clear the back bumper. Watching someone have to make a three point turn in the middle of rush hour traffic is painful. This would back the line of cars up even further and tempers would boil. In these situations I would walk around talking with motorists explaining what happened and they would shake their heads knowingly and wait.
But over and over again it was obvious; people were O.K. once they understood.

I wish the NAACP, Jesse, Al, or anyone else who claims to be invested in equality could have been there. Here is the lesson.

There are still race issues that should be addressed in this country. Racism still exists and discrimination still has affects. The biggest difference between today and 40 years ago is less people understand. There are no fire hoses and police dogs. No one is standing in the doors of the school house and few are kicked out of restaurants. The battle lines are hard to see. Many, if not most, white Americans don’t even know these battles still need fighting.

There is no one standing and directing traffic, explaining the situation, and people are getting mad. White people are sitting in a long line of traffic and have no idea that up ahead, the wheels have come off. We are all speeding ahead and will soon find ourselves staring at emergency flashers with no room to get in the other lane. Then what?

Today in the world of race relations there are those, individuals and institutions, who are trying to fight the fight. Lawyers, watch dog groups, campaigners, philanthropists, social workers, the list goes on. Some quietly go about business trying to do good, others scream loudly about injustice but rare is the one who explains what it’s all about.
The issues facing race and the affects of racism (both today’s and yesterday’s) have so much to do with people’s hearts and minds that it would make sense that these should be the targets. But they aren’t.

Sadly most are fighting today’s war with the weapons of days past. Looking for legislation, or filing a lawsuit. To the white person 20 cars back, it looks like black people are just tying up traffic. They don’t know why, they can’t see what’s going on, and all they know is they are trying to get somewhere. No one is walking back informing people that the lane ahead has a broken car in it.

Most of us have run around the corner saying “that aint my car.”

Great example, both bad and good.

2009-04-29T15:14:00.000-04:00

I don’t think he realized he was doing it. Well, maybe he did but I’m sure he didn’t realize he was offending her. It isn’t that unusual. I have watched lots of white people do it. Most think it is endearing or proves they are “down”.
She didn’t really know how to tell him it bugged her. We usually saw him when we were all in groups and that makes it worse on two fronts; she didn’t want to confront him in front of people, but then again him doing it in front of people made it even worse.

Whenever talking to her, he would add things like, “you know that’s right!” or “you go girlfriend” to the conversation and would talk with his hands.

She would come away wondering, “do I talk like that?” She doesn’t.
I take that back, she doesn’t talk like that to white people.

She wondered if that’s how he thinks she sounds. Does he even hear me? I don’t speak like that around him, why does he think I sound like that?

It began to bother her a lot and she didn’t want to be around him. She was sure he didn’t really mean to offend but she didn’t know how, or really want, to bring it up with him.

Then he did the perfect thing. He approached her.

“I think I have offended you,” he said. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I don’t really think. I do boneheaded things. Please realize I didn’t mean to be offensive, I made a mistake.”

She was impressed and told him he was the bigger person for approaching her, for doing the thing she was avoiding. She now thinks highly of him.
Just before that, she wanted nothing to do with him.

Lots of people make honest mistakes, few truly apologize and try to make things right.
If more people did, I would have to write about something else.
I would love that.

It takes a big person to open up

2009-04-22T11:49:00.000-04:00

I got this letter from a friend of mine. He has never commented on the blog and his admission is a bit surprising to me. Only a bit, in that he is a pretty honest and sincere guy, and in that I’m sure he isn’t alone in his experience.
Here is an excerpt:

“My problem honestly isn't black vs. white (in fact I wish sometimes I was black, at least then I would have a heritage other than European no matter if slavery was part of that heritage it would be better) it's more like Latino vs. white. This comes from a very bad experience from a con man who took me for some money and through his shoddy workmanship almost killed me. Now why is it when a white person does that to me, which they have, do I not blame white people. Why do I have the tendency to blame another race when the individual that "robbed" me was from a race that was not my own. I don't remember my parents ever teaching me that. What is your thought on that? I honestly don't mean to do that, in fact just the thought that I subconsciously blame all Latinos for what that one man did, makes me sick and want to crawl under a rock. One thing though I try not to dwell on it or act on my strange feeling of I guess you can call it racism. Is racism a choice then? You know me, I try not to judge, so if racism is a choice, if I choose not to act racist, then am I racist even if I thought for one brief second I hate all Latinos? This might sound superficial but I wonder what your take is on that?”

My first thought here was, “wow you almost died? I wanna hear that story”.
Other than that, two main things here should be addressed.

Unfortunately this is one way racism can be born. I hesitate to say he is a racist, but these thoughts come from a view of someone else as the “other”. He doesn’t blame all whites because he is one, and that would mean blaming himself, his family, his close friends, and he knows they are not all cons. The wrongs done to him by other whites are balanced out by the good whites have done.
This in no way means Latinos are not capable of doing just as much good but rather shows where, or rather with whom, he is spending his time. Most feelings or thoughts that those not of our race are an “other” come from lack of meaningful experience with those we deem not like ourselves.
This is pervasive, I see it all over.
Black vs. white
White vs. Latino
Republican vs. Democrat
Since we don’t really know “them” we paint with a broad brush. We pick up things we have experienced or been told and that becomes the group. As a result we are occasionally correct in our assumptions and occasionally wrong. Whichever it is, it is never fair.
No one should be judged by what they are but rather who they are.

The author of this letter knows this, which leads to my second point.

Someone like this should not be condemned or labeled racist. This is someone realizing some personal tendencies toward racism, struggling to understand them, and working to correct them. This is exactly what more of us should do. This is exactly the person who is worth taking some time to help. Were a Latino to be reading this and happen to know this guy, I would hope that said Latino would reach out and help the guy work through this.

This sort of work is how we get past racism. Ignoring this guy, or even worse acting angrily, only pushes him back into his more insulated world and he will never conquer his problems… and that means neither will we.

That Flag

2009-04-15T20:24:00.001-04:00

When moving to South Carolina for work, I spent a day driving around with the girl I was replacing. She was a cute young blonde whose pride in her hometown could not be contained. She liked to talk.

She showed me the main street, the church she wanted to marry her “southern gentleman” boyfriend in, plantation homes, and all the places where the “young professionals ate and socialized. She told me how people here took southern hospitality serious and I was sure to be welcomed.

In the process of my tour she remarked how she was born in the wrong century. “Wouldn’t it have been great to live in the old south? I mean, I think I was meant to go to balls, relax with family and friends on the porch while drinking mint juleps. Wouldn’t those days have been great?” she asked wistfully.
“Sure, unless you were a black person,” was my response.

She was visibly taken aback and looked confused. “Well I guess… I wasn’t talking about that. I mean, I was just saying the values and genteel lifestyle ya know?”
“You do realize that lifestyle was only possible because of slavery right?” I asked.

She hemmed and hawed and moved on to other subjects. I’m sure she thought me rude and confrontational. I’m glad this girl was not required to report to my superior about how the day went.

I don’t think this girl was a racist but I do think she is representational.

Racism has moved from an open, rationalized, hatred or possibly dislike, into a simple glossing over of all things racial. The desires this girl had for times past ignored the very existence of race. I have seen this as a pattern in mainstream/white American society where most never think of the minority and bristle when they are pointed out. It is as if pointing out an issue becomes the issue.

I have argued with many over whether or not the confederate battle flag is a racist symbol.

Many claim it is simply an honoring of those who went before. A symbol of those brave enough to fight for what they felt was right, to fight against Northern or Federal oppression aimed at destroying another’s way of life. It is a symbol hearkening back to better times when courtesy and manners ruled, when a Southerner could be proud.
That has nothing to do with race.

Unless you are black.

That is the racism of it.
To ignore a group of people that have always been there is ignorant. To ignore a group of people who were beaten, raped, and killed under that flag, by the very ancestors “that flag” glorifies, is both the seeds and the fruit of racism.

But then again, I’m sure they weren’t really talking about “that”.

Drawing done on location

2009-04-14T12:49:00.000-04:00

In a Rocky movie, not a bad seat in the house, and home of one of my favorite nights of the year... Philly Fight Night!!! (www.phillyfightnight.com)

Confucious

2009-04-11T07:50:00.000-04:00

I don't "get it"

2009-04-09T23:21:00.000-04:00

Today reminded me of something.

I don't really "get it". I will never, I cannot.

I don't write this blog because I am all wise, or all understanding, and know what its like.

I write because I know enough of what its like, to realize I will never know how it feels.

Its impossible.

Joseph Brant

2009-04-05T23:00:00.000-04:00

Individual vs. the group

2009-03-21T09:44:00.000-04:00

I’m not racist, I have a black friend/cousin/relative/spouse/etc.

I’ve heard some form of this statement many times, from many people, and in many forms. Usually it precedes some statement disparaging another race, or a question about said race. It is a sort of personal defense, or proof, to deflect potential accusations or suspicion when a white person enters into the mine field of racial discussions.

Now white people aren’t the only ones who use this, I have heard black people use it too. Strangely enough I have only heard them use it in reference to other minorities, not whites. As in, “I got Asian friends and all, but why do the Koreans own all the stores?”

Many white people have no problem getting to know or befriending a black person, or any other minority for that matter, but still fail to understand or feel comfortable with groups of minorities. Realize that in doing so you are ignoring, discrediting, or simply missing a large part of who that person is.

The ability to like or love an individual in no way proves a level of understanding or appreciation for the group that person belongs to. Quite often the love for the person comes as a result of ignoring or discrediting that person’s group.

I have been told that I don’t count when someone was disparaging others of my race, as well as where I come from. Those telling me this meant it as a compliment, it was not.

I AM white.

I AM from Utah.

To say that I am not like all the others who share these things is to rob me of who I am. Could it be that if you like me than just maybe there are others from my group worth liking as well? Could it be we are not as bad as you think? What if some of the things you like about me, I gained due to my background?

Here is a small test. Be honest with yourself.

Sure you have a black friend, but how do you feel when you stumble onto a large group of black people? Are you comfortable being the only white person? If you see a TV program or movie with a mostly black cast, what do you assume? Is this friend of yours different than the"others"? Do you view said friend differently when they are in a group of "their" people?

Realize that the proponents of Apartheid in South Africa, Jim Crow in America, and even the Klan have professed to not disliking minorities but simply want the group of them to be kept away.

Now to be fair, someone using the “but I have a black family member” should not be automatically discredited. Loving an individual is a start. For race relations to move forward we have to take those who have a “start” and bring them the rest of the way. When this self professed non-racist then asks why black people think its cool to fail at school, don’t slap them… answer the question. I would probably answer the question by pointing out how the football team in my nearly all white school made fun of my decent grades. I would point out how the smart kids were rarely the “cool” kids in my school (this is not to say that many of the cool kids were not smart. Many were smart enough not to act like it in order to maintain the social rung they wanted). Maybe I would suggest, “ask a black person if they think Barack is either smart or cool”.

Point being, help in the process. The question this person asks may sound crazy, but when is the last time you actually learned something while getting told you were stupid?

Today’s racism and the effects of yesteryear

2009-03-14T18:21:00.000-04:00

Too often we mistake dealing with today’s racism, or racists, as the same thing as dealing with the affects of our country’s racist past.

There is a real disparity between the races in terms of family structure, income, education, and general quality of life (healthcare etc.) that can trace its roots to a set of laws and practices espoused by those in power and upheld by the general populace, 40 years ago. The civil rights movement fought against this system and won the legal and legislative war.
With unjust laws and systems swept aside, government and society is/was left with the affects those policies left behind. Attempts were and are being made to not simply integrate those who had been separated but also repair centuries worth of damage.
That is the purpose of Affirmative action, civil rights litigation, the black national congress, NAACP, and any myriad of other groups, associations, or policies. They are aimed to repair the damage done to those who do or have fallen victim to racist policy, not to erase racism.

It seems that most black people understand this, most white people don’t.

This difference in understanding is at the heart of the modern race problem. Black people, despite winning legal protection, see little to no progress in the hearts and minds of the general population. The racist laws are mostly gone but the racists remain.
White people mostly believe both were destroyed together.

Reality is that the civil rights movement and the moral authority it exerted did a far better job at condemning and ostracizing racism than most black s realize, but far less than whites assume.

So now we have two sets of people speaking the same language but working from two diametrically opposed bases. Black people speak of today’s issues as if they are a continuation of the same battle from 40 years ago, lumping problems with today’s racists, be they police or business owners, and the affects of old policy, i.e. achievement and economic gaps, together. White people feel attacked personally by the general or sweeping nature of the complaints and think all the problems are self inflicted (a tendency formed with the exaggerated idea that the REAL problems were solved decades ago).

How much more productive would the efforts for progress be, if those acting as voice would separate the individuals of today from the legacies of yesterday?

Acknowledge that there are still racists; call them out individually when they show themselves, without the assumption that they represent the whole.

Explain how disadvantaged communities still feel real affects from yesterday’s policy and couch today’s proposals as a condemnation of the past, not a slap to the face of the present.

If we don’t, we will not only keep repeating our mistakes, but things will get worse. Misunderstanding, if left to fester, can grow into an inoperable terminal cancer.

Are we cowards?

2009-03-11T20:54:00.000-04:00

I got edited off of someone’s blog the other day.

It was a post by a white guy, who was complaining, about a black guy complaining.
The black guy, America’s Attorney General, was calling American’s cowards when it comes to talking about matters of race.
The blogger said the speech was too negative and that white people don’t like to talk because they always come out being the racist.

The string of comments were applause for the blogger’s calling the govt. out on their anti-white stance. One inferred that politicians just use race as a smoke screen and another pointed out half black relatives as proof they weren’t racist.

How could I pass this up? I don’t know this blogger and I assume most everyone else who frequents it are personal friends. I guess I was crashing the party.

I commented that Holder’s words were a condemnation of ALL Americans, not just white ones. I offered that in my experience it is true that people don’t like to talk about race and would rather hide from or ignore issues that are in fact very real to a lot of people. I hit “publish comment”, double checked to make sure it posted (it did), and went on about my business.

Later that day I doubled back to see what the blogger’s response was. My comment was nowhere to be found.

I think this proved Mr. Holder’s point and I’m sure this object lesson was completely lost on the blogger.

Juvenile Justice

2009-03-06T15:30:00.000-05:00

(check out bonobos.com, the newest owners of original dalynart)

I spent most of my day in a court room.
I was there as a character witness for a 16 year old boy who is being tried for assault with a deadly weapon and armed robbery. He was 15 when the crime was committed and the hearing I was attending was a review before a judge to have the defendant passed back down to the juvenile system.

The young man is about 6’2” and 220lbs. He is very dark skinned and usually wears a huge fake diamond in his ear.
I met him when he joined my church a couple years ago. Today was my first time sitting down to have a conversation with his mother.

The judge prefaced the hearing by stating he had never seen a case quite like this. He had before him the contrast of a young man who not only had a spotless record but a pile of letters vouching for him. These letters, the judge noted, were not from the usual suspects; parents and the little old lady next door, but otherwise independent third parties like teachers, coaches, and church leaders. The record and letters were juxtaposed against the evidence and brutality of the crime.

A lonely man was out walking his dog when a group of youth beat him with a 2x4 and stole his cell phone. After tracking the cell phone usage the police found the young man in question with a group of his friends. The victim pointed out the big one with the earring as the wielder of the weapon and the police claim they found the phone in his possession when he was apprehended.

I have a very hard time believing he did it. He has always been polite, quiet, but not in a silent brooding way, and relaxed. He attended church services and youth events on his own. I was tasked with finding his mother to get adult permission for activities and responsibilities. This was always difficult.

I spent some time in the summer working with him on football skills. I had attended Philadelphia public school football games before and was appalled at the low level of coaching. Not that they were bad coaches but more that there were only two of them. When I played and coached there were always around 12 coaches on a high school staff. Two is no where enough to aspire to a mediocre level of play. This kid had the undeveloped size and coordination to be more than impressive. I have some experience and offered to help. He was a tough case. Why?

No aggression.

I attended his games. I went one on one with him over the summer and always the same issue. No aggression. Combine that with size that outpaced his strength, and he had along way to go before the pro’s came calling. He was a bit of a force as a sophomore simply because the other kids had trouble moving someone his size around. But he never initiated anything. He simply lacked energy, strength, and that mean streak that is condoned and even valued on a football field. I considered him someone that could be a prospect on paper if he hit a weight room, but knew that anyone who met him would know he did not have that edge.

The prosecutor mentioned that even after posting bail and being returned to his mother’s care he had 10 absences from school. He even got suspended from school less than ten days before this hearing. His mother almost cried when explaining to me the suspension was only for possessing a hooded sweatshirt which was in violation of the school’s policy. A zero-tolerance policy. The defense read the letters, pointed out his clean record, and was going on when the judge cut him off.

“I know that in our system you are considered innocent till proven guilty, but I am not the judge who will be hearing this case, so I can say this…” The judge began. He then read aloud a statement from the victim who told in broken English how he lives in constant fear and pain. He does not have dental insurance to repair his broken teeth. His face and jaw are a network of wires and he had lost 30 lbs. since the beating. The judge explained that it was obvious to him that the accused showed one face to all the adults he knew and another on the street. He was granting the motion to pass him back to the juvenile system only because he was so young that he may have a chance at being reformed. He stated that the juvenile system was better prepared to work with the young man.

He then finished by stating that the proper place for him was in detention, revoked his bail, and looked him in the eye and asked “how do you sleep at night?”

With that they took him away, still wearing the tie I had just tied for him, and we all left the courtroom. On the way home his mother explained to me that their cousin knows who really did the beating but refused to snitch. She also told me she was giving the defendant’s room to his little brother’s and cousins.

My wife says I should believe the victim and the physical evidence (possession of the victim’s phone). I know that just because I see someone in one light, I should never assume they are not capable of acting differently. I have trouble seeing this docile and amicable boy swinging a piece of lumber at a stranger, not because I think he is nice, but because I have seen him play football.

But I wasn’t there.

I will be there for the trial. I will write another letter, and I will tell what I know about him. I wish I trusted the system. I wish I trusted my own judgment.

Thomas Edison

2009-02-27T17:01:00.000-05:00

Thanks Howard Stern

2009-02-13T14:07:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure how the conversation got started but it ended with black history month.

He was trying to tell me that having a black history month was insulting to black people. His theory, that he claims he got from Morgan Freeman on the Howard Stern Show, is that by setting aside one month means that it's OK to ignore black history the rest of the year.

Sure, I understand where Morgan was coming from but did my friend? My friend, who is seriously a good guy, thinks all black clubs or organizations are racist.

So here is my question to you all... or rather question"S".

Tell you what, as soon as someone can answer 1/2 of these questions without using google i will agree that we don't need a black history month.

1.What was the #1 best selling book in the 1800’s?
2.In one sentence, what was the cause of the civil war?

3.What was the Missouri compromise?
4.What did slavery have to do with the Alamo?
5.What was the compromise of 1877?
6.What percent of the U.S. population in 1776 was black?
7.Who founded Liberia? When?
8.What is the 15th Amendment and when was it passed?
9.What was a Dixiecrat?
10.What was the Kerner Commission?
11.Who was Crispus Attucks?
12.What was the Tuskegee study?
13.How many black men were lynched from 1880-1951?
14.Who was York?
15.Who was the first man on the North Pole?
16.What year did Georgia incorporate the Confederate battle flag into it’s State flag?

First one who answers them all right gets the prize! If you do it without Google, I'll call you on three way so you can laugh while I call my buddy back to tell him he was right.

Media Influence

2009-02-02T08:58:00.000-05:00

I never saw a gangsta till Mtv showed me one. Well, I’m still not sure Dr. Dre and Snoop were really gangsters, but they said they were and what do I know? Maybe I was too young to notice but before this time I never saw any kind of graffiti, except on TV. That changed when someone sprayed COL POSSEY on the wall of my middle school. Shortly thereafter I remember being the only one at a party wearing pants that didn’t sag. It wasn’t my usual crew but still, I was the ONLY guy who didn’t sag. Soon thereafter my school posted rules banning bandanas, Raiders logoed gear, and baseball hats. I remember friends being upset by the ban. Thanks to that time in my life I still know how to throw up a Cryp or Blood sign. A kid I played football against lost his football scholarship and went to prison because he shot someone at a concert. The paper said it was “gang related”.
Did I mention I grew up in Sandy Utah, 99.875% white? It was, and probably still is, one of the most stable neighborhoods anywhere.

My wife never thought college was an option. She didn’t know anyone who had ever been. Well, her teachers I suppose, but they are different. No one in the family had ever been, neither had anyone in the families of any of her friends. It was never talked about, never encouraged, a simple non-issue, as if it didn’t exist. College was for white people, rich white people.

Then she saw the TV show, “A Different World”. She loved it. It had black people in college. All sorts of black people: rich “bougie” ones, nerdy ones, jocks, from the hood poor ones, everyone. It made college look cool, fun, and accessible. She decided she was going and talked to a councilor at school. Going and asking is how she found out about Georgia’s “Hope” scholarship which provides ANY student who graduates with a B average, a full tuition scholarship to any state school. She received her Bachelors with honors.

Does media have an influence?

She is Tired

2009-01-27T10:15:00.001-05:00

“I’m not reading the book.” My wife said.

I wasn’t quite sure why. She is not always the best at finishing the books for her monthly book club but outright refusal is something new, unless its science fiction. This month was a book about some guy who grew up in the hood and then got into an Ivy League school. I asked her why she wasn’t reading it.

“I’m tired of talking about race with a bunch of white people.”

We have been here before. We have lived in all white places. We have socialized in predominantly white circles. Every time, it gets tiring for her.

It has nothing to do with any of the individual people really, there is no one to point a finger at, it’s more like everything.
Its watching and listening to a bunch of people talk and discuss the issues of a group they don’t belong too and don’t really understand. It is not fielding questions on the subject, but being used as a yard stick with which to measure that other group. It is assumptions that she isn’t really like the rest of her group, doesn’t really belong to “them”, or even possibly just the opposite.
It gets old, it gets tiring, and sometimes the things you learn about others in these discussions, you wish you didn’t.

I don’t get tired, I get worried.

I get worried for her; I want her to be happy.
I continue to talk about these things but more often when she isn’t around. I continue to talk because these things need to be talked about. Someone who has very informed opinions recently said in a blog post that talking about race doesn’t help.
I would counter by asking if not talking about race has ever helped?
When has silence on the subject ever made the problems go away?

I get worried because I fear people will stop listening because they get tired of my voice. How long can someone listen to the same note played over and over again? How many ways can I think to play this one note and keep it interesting?
I worry people will ignore what I say, writing me off as a zealot. I worry people think the issues really aren’t that important and I have simply chosen one issue to harp on and blown it out of proportion. I worry that if I focus too sharply I will lose perspective.

I worry that if I shut up, my children will be more likely to have to fight the issues I shy away from. Of course I can’t fix the world, nor can anyone fix it by the time my children become more aware, but as a father I feel I have to try. I have to set an example.

I don’t fault my wife for being tired. I think she should give it a rest, she is enlisted in this fight whether she wants to be or not. She deserves all my patience and care.

I have no patience for white people who are tired of this fight. We tend to get tired of it far too quickly, usually before it really gets going. We tire because we think it is someone else’s fight. We tire because if we ignore it, it usually ignores us. We ignore the fact that black people don’t have this luxury. Not only do we ignore it but we tend to resent their attempts to do so, disparaging all black colleges or groups, or lunch tables. We tire because we think the fight is rigged against us.

It is not.

She should be able to rest, that is why I cannot.

Sandy, Utah

2009-01-24T10:28:00.001-05:00

I lived in the same house from birth to age 19. I haven't been to my home town, or even home state, in almost seven years. I'm thinking of taking a trip.

Black Horror Movie.

2009-01-20T01:09:00.000-05:00

There are two routes around the block to get to my home. As we were coming home the other night, we saw up ahead, approximately 10 police cars all pulled into a small residential intersection, lights flashing. Now this is not a heavily trafficked block so the likelihood that this was an auto accident was nil.

It was in the direction of one of the usual routes home, so naturally I said, "Wow look at that! That's only a block away," and began turning toward the commotion.

My wife stopped me, looked me in the eye, and quite seriously said, "from now on you are living in a black horror movie. You know, the kind where the characters actually run AWAY from danger."

We took the alternate route home.

Alphabets

2009-01-15T17:14:00.000-05:00

Templars

2009-01-13T08:25:00.000-05:00

Albert Einstein

2009-01-12T16:38:00.000-05:00

Drawings Done On Location

2009-01-06T23:02:00.000-05:00

Lookout Butte, Idaho (outside Kooskia)

Do racist ideas make one a racist?

2009-01-04T22:21:00.000-05:00

Do racist ideas make one a racist?

I suppose it depends on how you define racist.

Before I go into this, let me do something…

[Writer gets down on knees]

My dear black readers, or any black person who has an interest in closing the racial gap in this country, please, PLEASE, take the card with the word RACIST on it and tuck it into your back pocket. You know the one; it has an arrow pointing to whomever you flash it at. Don’t get rid of it just sit on it for a bit.

Why?

The word racist is too singular, too final. It is a brand that many white people see as the end of the conversation. Society has succeeded in making being a racist so bad that once that accusation has been made, you have been excluded from having any further opinions and therefore need no longer participate in the discussion.

Quite honestly, I see the premature and too frequent pulling of this card as one of the singular biggest obstacles to real discussions on race relations, and the progress such discussions can foster.

“Why shouldn’t I call a racist a racist?” you may ask. “How is that hurting progress?”

Because it is possible to just be a little bit racist. It is not like being pregnant; it’s not all or nothing. The word does not allow for gradients and therefore should only be pulled when all doubt has been removed and the racist has completely lifted the bed sheet and been exposed in entirety. Keep in mind that to end racism, or simply make a little progress, white people will have to go along. Smacking around potential allies is not helpful.

[Writer stands back up]

Now that we took care of that, let’s address the question. The answer is maybe.
Many may have heard someone, while defending a charged statement, state that they have a black/white friend, so are therefore not racist. Most black people I know when encountering this argument would hit the B.S. button and immediately assume you aren’t real friends (true story; many, MANY, slave owners were honestly and deeply surprised when slaves abandoned them at the first sign of the northern army. They thought the slaves loved them).

During the early years of our marriage, my wife and I lived in an area where most people had never had the opportunity to get to know a black person. It was very sobering when my wife expressed to me her concern that one day one of these new white friends would say something ridiculous and then refer to their relationship with her in their own defense. This concern caused her to hold back opinions and expression till she not only liked someone but deeply trusted them. It takes a lot of time and effort to trust someone from a group that has historically proven unworthy of trust.

I understand the mindset at the root of this “defense” and wish to address it in my proposition that racist ideas do NOT make one a racist.

In the mind of most white people being a racist means that very simply you do not like black people or see them as bad. You may argue all sorts of societal or systemic issues dealing with power and what racism really is and where it comes from, but still, in the mind of most all whites it really is that simple… racist means you hate black people.

With that definition in mind, white people enter the world of race relations. This white person gets to know, and like, maybe even love, a black person and feels personally liberated and educated. They honestly like a black person and therefore know they are not a racist. They know their own feelings, despite what anyone else argues, and from there begin to build a foundation on the idea that they are not racist, which in their mind and hearts cannot be argued with.

This person may know nothing about history, sociology, culture, whatever. They may hold ideas regarding race and it’s surrounding issues that are on their surface racist. They may be a personality type that loudly expresses themselves with an air of authority… a type I find aggravating at best and autobiographical at worst.

This is the person that can be reached. This is the person worth reaching out too.
This may also be a person who thinks all rap is Gangsta and that backwards ballcaps are a sure sign of criminal intent. This person can be reached, or rather educated.

This person MUST be reached. Progress is possible and to move forward we, both black and white, must take the time to see where the other is coming from. Pointing a finger and slapping the bigot label on someone who is simply inexperienced and uneducated is the fastest way to create a passive bystander at best, and an actual racist a worst.

In closing;
[Writer gets back down on knees, hands folded in pleading submission]

“White people… Shut up for a minute and stop trying to defend yourself. You can be wrong in some areas and still be a good person. Admit you might be wrong, accept you may not be the expert, accept that black people may not trust or even like you, and stop defending yourself long enough to hear what black people are saying.
Guess what, saying black people are more racist than white people is a sweeping generalization and in and of itself a racist comment, so don’t say it.
Please white people, my people, stop thinking it is about you personally and really try to understand the big picture. Be willing to talk about race without assuming you are on trial. You are not.
Let’s just be reasonable.”

Being wrong about race does not make you a racist, but if not properly dealt with can create one.

HOW BOUT THEM UTES!!!!!

2009-01-03T09:13:00.001-05:00

13-0!
Hey SEC...what happened?

Something else white folk don't know...Kwanzaa

2008-12-24T18:49:00.000-05:00

Most white people know very little about Kwanzaa. What they really don’t know is that very few black people know anything about it either… or care.

Inexperienced white folk, which is most all of us, don’t know how to act at Christmas if we happen to cross paths with a black person. Heaven forbid a black person works with you and you have no idea if you should include something Kwanzaa or not.
I would say follow this rule: if the black person in question does in fact celebrate Kwanzaa you will probably already know it.
If the person is African, they don’t (most likely) celebrate Kwanzaa. Kwanzaa is not African, it was created in the USA in 1966.
Maybe later we can get into what being “Afrocentric” means, but for now, realize most American black people are Christian and celebrate Christmas just like you. Well maybe not JUST like you, but then again not all white people celebrate it the same either, so relax. You would be better served wondering if the person is Muslim, or perhaps Jehovah’s Witness.

That being said, Kwanzaa has its roots in African-American culture and you, as a white person have no right to clown it. If you chance upon some black people in the act of mocking the lighting of candles and home made gifts… shut up. You are more than welcome to inquire, even participate with someone who does celebrate it, but to verbalize negativity about it would be akin to a black person saying St. Patrick was a Klan member and shamrocks are good for nothing else than supporting alcoholism.

On that note, I am Christian and wish you all a Merry Christmas.
.

Not Save the Last Dance

2008-12-20T15:36:00.000-05:00

“There were black people all up and through that movie… and for no reason too!”

My wife shouted those words on our way back to the babysitters after seeing 7 Pounds last night. It was Will Smith, so of course you expect to see a black main character and consequentially a black love interest but what about all those other folks?

I’m not here to spoil any plot lines and I’m not the top movie critic around, but I have to comment on this. The cast of this movie isn’t huge, no epic crowds or masses. Race isn’t an issue to the plot. They could have been Asian or African and it would change nothing. To my recollection race was never mentioned. I didn’t see any drug dealers, no one got shot, no prostitutes, no cops, no aliens, and no explosions.

I did see a rocket scientist, an artist, a tax collector, doctors, telemarketer, musician, sleazy motel owner, golf, and an aquarium. Spike Lee had nothing to do with the movie and there was no big hip-hop sound track. There was even an interracial couple where the man was the white one… and it was never acknowledged.

Still there they were. Black people, for no reason at all.

We loved it.

We gave the movie a B, but it gets an A for not living up to Hollywood stereotypes.

Lies, @#$& Lies, and email forwards

2008-12-10T11:12:00.000-05:00

I get these kinds of comments and I usually delete them.
I’ve gotten this particular info in quite a few emails as well.

Jack has left a new comment on your post "Being afraid isn't racist":

There are an estimated 1.5 million Black men in prison and another 3.5 million on probation. Black males make up more than 70 percent of the total prison population, even though they make up only 6 percent of the U.S. population. Although blacks are 12% of the population in reality it is just 2% of the blacks that commit 50% of the murders and a greater percentage of other crimes. Consider: black females - 6%. Blacks from zero yrs. to 12 yrs. and black males from 50-100 years commit an infinitesimal percentage of the crimes. Therefore we are left with two percent. If we eliminate crimes committed by this two percent from the U.S. statistics our country compares very favorably with all Western countries. Fact -- blacks kill 7 times more than whites kill. Fact -- blacks kill whites 20 times more than whites kill blacks. Fact -- blacks mug or commit group crime against whites 50 times more than whites commit against blacks. Fact -- blacks rape white women 2000 (yes 2000) times more than whites rape black women. In New York City, about 300 white women are raped by blacks every year BUT there has not been a black woman raped by a white male in anybody¢s memory (going back over 20 yrs.) Consider: Al Sharpton had to go upstate New York to find a hoax and that was almost 20 years ago. (Source NYT 4/22/05) According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics 2004 report (released May 2006), blacks commit 54 percent of the homicides in America even though they constitute only 12 percent of the population.An individual black male is seven times more likely to commit murder than an individual white male. It so happens that black felons commit 43 percent of aggravated assaults, 66 percent of armed robberies, 27 percent of rapes and 85 percent of interracial crimes of violence, mainly against whites (this last figure from a Justice Department report 2003). However, it's not just in the United States. The greatest dicators in recent years have emerged in Africa. People like Idi Amin of Uganda, Hastings Kamuzu Banda in Malawi, Mobutu Sese Seko, in Zaire, self-anointed Emperor Bokassa of the Central African Republic, Mohammed Saidi Barre in Somalia, Sani Abacha of Nigeria, Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe -- the list is endless.

Publish this comment.

Reject this comment.

Moderate comments for this blog.

I’m going to entertain this one to
A) confront this info if you have seen it yourself, and
B) illustrate what happens when you open a dialogue on race… you get this stuff.

(just in case you are wondering, I have NEVER recieved an email or comment about how dangerous or evil white people are)

Dear “Jack”
What is the source of your info and how long did your research take?

I admit I usually just sit down and write but this time I actually did research. My research took 3 minutes. It took about 20 seconds to get these numbers and then I spent another 2 minutes and 40 seconds triple checking the sources to ensure they were legitimate.

blacks that commit 50% of the murders
According to the FBI and U.S.Dept of Justice in 2005 (most recent published year), blacks committed 52.2% of homicides compared to white’s 45.8%.

in reality it is just 2% of the blacks
If we were to assume the same for whites, and why not, yours was an assumption and your logic on this is not race specific, than it is only 2% of whites who commit all their/our crimes right? That would sort of balance things out wouldn’t it?
I would be still be a little nervous because that would mean there are 11.9 million really bad white people compared to only 1.9 million really bad black people. Whom should I fear?

Fact -- blacks kill 7 times more than whites kill
In 2005 45.8% of all murders were committed by white people.
52% of all murders were committed by black people
That’s a pretty even split especially if you consider, as you stated, that all these crimes are really only being committed by a miniscule number of people when compared with the population as a whole.
Help me out with the math, how does this come out to 7 times more likely? I would like the equation please.

Fact -- blacks kill whites 20 times more than whites kill blacks.

In 2005 black on white murders were 8.8%
White on black murders were 3.2%
86% of white victims were killed by another white while 94% of blacks were killed by another black person.
Now this is admittedly lop-sided, but you forgot a few things, like how 60.7% of murders are committed by family members.

Are you an interracial family?

25% of interracial murders are committed by perfect strangers. If you were a murderer, looking for a stranger to kill, would it be easier to find a black person (38.3 million) or a white person (239.9 million)?

According to the Bureau of Justice Statistics 2004 report (released May 2006), blacks commit 54 percent of the homicides in America even though they constitute only 12 percent of the population.

In 2005 blacks only committed 52%... we’ll catch up to them if we just keep trying!
But don’t worry “Jack” because they are mostly killing each other… O wait, but so are we (remember that family statistic?).

Jack, I would love to talk to you or anyone else about all this but first, please answer a few questions:

How many murders go unsolved? Who committed those? If on trial for murder, whom is more likely to have a good lawyer, the 16 year old black kid, or the middle aged white guy?

How much do these stats reflect policing rather than what “really happened”?

Have you looked into acquittal rates for black vs. whites, as well as arrest rates for black v. white?
Which is more likely to be rigorously investigated; a white kid getting shot or a black kid?
A rich kid or a poor kid?

Why did you send me this information and what conclusions should I draw from them?
Are black people just worse people than whites?
Even if these numbers were accurate portrayals of reality, you make no offering as to why.
If you think it is this bad, how did it get this way?
What is the cause of the disparity?

What is the cause of your mind set?

Simon Bolivar

2008-12-09T15:43:00.000-05:00

placeholders in my notebook

2008-12-09T15:40:00.000-05:00

Being afraid isn't racist

2008-11-25T08:01:00.000-05:00

Being afraid isn’t racist.
Being afraid at the wrong time is suspect.

Barack talked of his white grandma admitting to clutching her purse when seeing a young black male on the street. It was an example of her irrational fear of black males, despite her raising one. Fear is an emotion. It usually works separate from one’s rational mind and occasionally quite contrary to it.

You can learn a lot about yourself by your emotional reactions. I challenge everyone to look honestly at themselves and think about when, and of whom, you are afraid.

Let me give some examples where race played a part.

I once lived on Bankhead Highway in Atlanta. My roommate and I were the only white people we ever saw there. This is where I saw my first dead body, a man shot at the entryway to our apartment complex. People laughed at me when I told them where I lived and I had police officers, on two separate occasions, tell me I was stupid for living there and not to expect any help when “they” came after me.

I never felt afraid. Why?

Because I knew the people. I was there as a religious missionary and knew that I was respected for that. All my neighbors had a deep respect for religion, even the “bad guys.” In addition to that, I was never alone, there were always two of us.

A few years later I came back to visit and found myself surprisingly nervous. Why?

I had been gone from that neighborhood about two years and no longer knew everyone. I was no longer a religious missionary but a white guy who was dressed nice, looking like I had money. I found myself leaving a friends place after dark, and realized I was alone. I got nervous because I knew that I was a mark. People around here were all broke, that hadn’t changed, and broke people tend to get a little desperate. I looked like I had money, was alone, and yes I am white. Sure race could play a factor. If some broke and desperate young black man, angry at the world, was looking for a wallet to take, what better mark than a symbol of historic oppression… the white guy?

I did not loiter.

Compare that with a work meeting I attended in D.C. not too long ago. About six or seven of us were walking back to the hotel after dinner, about two blocks off the mall, right by the capitol building. I’m six foot one and usually weigh in at about 250lbs. I’m not small. The other guys were an athletic looking bunch, all white guys, admittedly all past our primes, but not a bunch of chumps… so I thought. It was early evening. On one particular block there were a number of rough looking black folk mulling around. We didn’t know it at the time but there is a homeless shelter on that block. There were women and children looking dirty and sad, and a number of shaggy men looking at their feet. All were black. Everyone stopped at the curb like they had hit a wall. One even grabbed my shoulder as I stepped off the curb. I looked around for the car I thought I must have missed, didn’t see one, and looked at the guy and articulately said, “dude!?”
One of the other guys said to us all, “maybe we should walk around.” I think our hotel is only two blocks that way, it won’t take that long if we get there by going over to the mall and then cutting back across,” said another.

I told them to relax and walked on, not waiting for a reply. They reluctantly followed, looking like scared hobbits expecting demons to come flying from the shadows. They all thought I was trying to be some sort of tough guy.

Why would they be afraid?

There were seven of us, all able bodied men. These were families and famished looking men. They were black and they were poor. Two things I learned none of these guys had any experience with.

If any of them took two seconds to think, they would realize that even if any of these people did have bad intentions, we would be the LEAST likely bunch to go after. But they didn’t think, they just felt. Emotion outweighed rational thinking. Why such a natural jump to fear?

I now live in a city that averaged more than a murder a day last year. That only counts the people who actually die, not the ones who simply get shot or stabbed.

Should I be afraid? I know plenty of people who are. They avoid the city and get nervous when forced to certain parts of town.

None have taken the time to think, or looked things up, to realize that out of over three hundred seventy people killed, only three looked anything like me.

Ask yourself, why are you really afraid?

Quetzalcoatl

2008-11-21T16:00:00.000-05:00

"Hyphenated-American"

2008-11-09T22:00:00.000-05:00

Why the term “African-American”?
What about “Black-American”?
Why any sort of “ – American”? aren’t we all American?
Don’t these hyphenated names just create and maintain division, contrary to the idea of “one” America?

This one is fairly easy, but let me fully explain it. Bear with me.

As early as the 1600’s, black people were being born in America. This began a new generation of black people who had never touched foot on the continent of Africa. These black people and their descendants were no longer African, so what were they?

Slaves.

They were not English, Spanish, Dutch, or at the time even American. There was no America as we know it. From their beginning on this continent they were denied any identity, or rather ethnicity, aside from their demeaned status. Legally no more English or Dutch than a goat would be.

Now of course a lot has happened since then.

The Revolution and subsequent constitution began the foundation of what the mainstream considers “American”. Black people were there, this new culture and identity had a formative affect on them as well, after all, they were now owned by Americans.

In 1808, two hundred years ago, the importation of slaves was outlawed. There were no longer new Africans being brought to this continent, but the ones already here, were still not Americans. In 1857, just in case anyone got any ideas, the Supreme Court reminded us all that black people would never be citizens (Dredd Scott Decision).

Then America had a big war over slavery. America didn’t want slavery, and those who did, tried not to be Americans anymore. This was a big deal, there were a lot of black people, mostly in the south, and they represented nearly all the money, either as property or as means of production, in half the United States.
America won the war and even passed the 13th Amendment in 1865 to free the slaves. The vanquished slave culture did not give in so easily and the 14th Amendment was passed shortly thereafter (1868), making these newly free black people, nearly all born on the continent, Americans!

Now these newly christened Americans got up to speed exercising their new rights and participated in the workings of this country. They were elected Mayors, owned businesses, and even sat in the Senate and Congress. Many white Americans were not happy with this and a systematic and violent campaign was launched to relegate these “citizens” to a non-participatory status. These black Americans did as any citizen would and plead in the courts for protection of their rights. The courts said “no”.

White Americans, thanks in large part to their civil war training, were quite good at using violence, resulting in those black politicians and business’s disappearing in less than a decade. The black Americans persisted in asking the courts and the government for help.
That government consistently said no building up to one great climactic ruling in 1896. This is when the Supreme Court, or “America”, said black people are American but must stay separate from all the other Americans. It legitimized the idea that White Americans make the rules and Black Americans must follow them. To emphasize the point in 1908 the Supreme Court disallowed a college in Kentucky from admitting a black student… even though Berea College, a private school, wanted too.

This continued up till, and even past, the signing of the Civil Rights Act in1968.

Let’s give a small recap. The United States at this point has been a country for 192 years. Black people have been deemed legally “American” for 96 of those years.
Of those 96 years black people were only semi-allowed to act as citizens for 28 years (between 14th Amendment and Plessy v Ferg). I say semi-allowed because all historians agree this was probably THE worst time for a black person to try to participate as a citizen. After those 28 years America settled on a sort of compromise.

Black people were allowed to be Americans as long as they kept to themselves, and asked nothing of the government. This was the law for 68 years.

Now ask again why black people may call themselves African-Americans. For 188 years America had been an independent country. Black people were here the entire time but except for a brief reconstruction period, were never allowed to be fully American.

This whole time they continued to grow and develop. They developed religions with accompanying songs and styles of worship. They forged the Underground Railroad with all its legend and drama. They created jazz. They displayed great minds like Douglass, Dubois, Booker T, Langston and Zora. While being held at arms length they stamped their mark on what was considered cool, putting Harlem on the map. They fought as soldiers in wars, despite being denied rights. They formed their own schools, own clubs, own traditions, own foods, own language. All distinctly American, and all distinctly different than white America.

For 188 years they were forcibly separated. For 188 years they grew into their own parallel culture. They became “African-American”. Maybe “Black-American”. It is not my place to give the culture a name, but it exist still the same.

It is now 2008, forty years since the Civil Rights Act. Isn’t it time for things to change?

Maybe.

I have no place to say that someone else should deny what they are and become something new. There is an American black culture. It exists and has for some time. There are those within it who would like to assimilate. There are those who don’t. I personally believe we can, and wish we would, not only peacefully coexist, but easily intermingle. To deny that culture the right to declare itself would be no different than telling a Navajo he can no longer be called that.

Our two Americas can be one. I would say now, more than ever we are “one”. But by being undivided legally or in nationality should not mean giving up one’s personal history. That is and always has been the beauty of America.

Fly your Italian flag. Celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Be black and proud. Speak Spanish. Do any of these things and you can, at the same time, be American.

Pancho Villa

2008-11-07T23:18:00.000-05:00

November 4th, 2008

2008-11-05T07:52:00.001-05:00

My Daughter Marlee and I spent yesterday giving people rides to the polls.

It was mostly old black ladies who didn't bat an eye at this strange white guy helping them in and out of the car. Everyone gushed with gratitude and beamed with pride. Two of the ladies commented on how strange the neighborhood looked, they hadn't left the house in years. this election was a lot bigger deal to them than could be imagined.

No one in the long lines complained at all, most smiled, as I wheeled a lady in a wheelchair past them to the front of the line.

I followed one address down a trash strewn street, up to a corner being patrolled by the usual crowd of young men in hoodies and white tees. As I pulled up, one of the guys in cornrows and saggy pants, punches a buddy in the shoulder, throws up a deuce to the others, and hops in my car. He smiled, shook my hand, and said, "I haven't done this in a long time. Could you kinda show me how the voting machine works?"

I let a poll worker walk him through the machine. I wanted the people to see me acting without political bias.

When I gave the guy a ride home he had no problem letting me drop him off right at the crowded corner, as opposed to "around the corner" like an embarrassed teenager, ashamed of daddy's rusty car.

It was the type of day all these people expect to sit around, years from now, and recount where they were. Just like the Hugstable grand parents telling tales of marching with "the King."

I don't expect things to change over night. I will not be surprised if they never do change in a lasting way. But yesterday people were hopeful and no one assumed I was the enemy. Yesterday this city had brotherly love. No matter what happens in the next four years, it was worth it for what I got to experience yesterday.

I'm tired of this. Part 1

2008-11-01T16:12:00.001-04:00

It’s my fault. After all, I signed up for it.

I’m not tired of obvious racists. They usually don’t try very hard to hide, you tend to know who they are, and we generally pay them no mind.

I’m tired of everyone else.
O.K. not everyone, let me explain.

No one wants to admit they are wrong, not even to themselves.

Black and white people know very little about each other.

That about sums it up.

Polls have shown, and my experience confirms, that black and white people’s views on race differ dramatically. White people think race isn’t an issue, while black people do. When I say differ dramatically, it could be summed up as; few whites think race still matters, while nearly ALL black people do.

Someone has to be wrong, don’t they?

Maybe I could re-word it a little.

White people don’t think they are personally discriminating against black people and assume other whites are like them.

Black people have their race pointed out daily, if not constantly, and observe how it paints every initial interaction with others, as well their communities, so how could it not matter?

If this is the case than I could make an argument that they are both right. It’s a communication issue plain and simple.
So why don’t we just communicate?

Here’s a suggestion for white people. Ask your close black friend if they think race is still an issue in America, and when they say “yes”, ask them why. Wouldn’t that be a simpler and more accurate tactic than simply reading the polls in the paper or seeing them on TV, and thinking, “black people are all crazy”?

O wait, you probably don’t have a black friend close enough to you to ask that question do you?

Before you get all defensive, feeling picked on and oppressed by political correctness, it cuts both ways.

To black people I ask, “do you hang out with any white people on the weekend”? I know you work with them, go to school with them, see them in every TV show, see them in every political office, every occupation, every commercial, writing for every paper, etc. etc. but does that mean you really know any of them?
Ask your white friend why white people don’t think race matters. If you don’t have anyone to ask that question than you don’t really know white people.

That’s what I’m tired of.

Neither side knows the other, there doesn’t seem to be a general effort to fix that, and it’s getting worse.

I know both and firmly believe that neither is crazy, or… hold your breath… neither are bad. It isn’t rocket science; we just need to get to know each other a little better. So why don’t we?

WE WIN !!!!!

2008-10-30T08:25:00.001-04:00

We got in!!! We were there!

White people need to know this happens

2008-10-21T16:40:00.000-04:00

Little story.

Barack Obama was in Philly giving open to the public rallies in various locations. The crowds were huge, excited, even giddy. These rallies were quite obviously “the place to be.”

Some friends of mine who have been working as volunteers on Obama’s campaign, were working as ticket takers and ushers at the rally. One specifically, one with extra…”backbone”, was assigned to check tickets for the V.I.P. section and control who gets in or out. This lady was checking everybody, “Hi Mr. City council, do you have a pass? You do? O.K. go ahead.” You get the point.

Along comes the President of the Philadelphia NAACP. Miss backbone has no idea who he is; she has never seen him before. He has no pass and she refuses to let him in the V.I.P. section. Of course Mr. President won’t take no for an answer and starts to make a scene. Backbone calls over one of her supervisors, a lady who quit her job in NYC to come to a battleground state and volunteer for Obama. The supervisor has never met this man before either, he loudly lets her know who he is, and proceeds to belittle these ladies and cover every “do you know who I am” cliché there is.

Another friend of mine, who has lived in town for some time, is overly active in local issues, and knows who this guy is, came to the rescue. She matched loud with LOUDER, asking “who does he think he is?” She asked why he thinks he is a V.I.P. for this event when none of the people working the event have ever seen him before. She asked why, if he is so important in the community, none of the community has ever seen him before? She asked why if he is in charge of helping out black people, none of theses people (all the players in this story are black…as well as the surrounding crowd) have ever seen or been helped by him?

She could hold her own, but that is not the notable part of the story. As she carried on the crowd made it well known whose side they were on. She began to get a chorus of “amens” with each point she was making. The crowd got loud enough that some elected city officials, who knew my friend, came over to try to discretely attempt to distract and calm her down.

I believe Mr. NAACP probably got in eventually.

Why do white people need to hear this story? Because they/we never do.

I try to tell my white friends that most black people feel the same way they do about Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton. They don’t believe me.
I know several white business owners who tell stories of black politicians and organizations pushing forward unqualified candidates. I can tell them this is in no way representative of the black population but how would these white people ever know? They don’t actually know, in any meaningful way, any black people.

As far as these white people know Jesse really is a voice for the masses.
As far as they know the crony being forwarded by the black politician is the best the black community has to offer.

These become the white people that oppose affirmative action.
These instances leave a sour taste in the mouth of whites, who then open their mouth to their friends.
These instance become how white people view the black community, and as far as I can see, neither side is doing much to contradict that notion.

All I can do is tell a little story, one of many, and keep telling my white friends that so-called black leaders represent black people even less than Bill Clinton represents all the people from Arkansas, or that W represents all people from Texas.

They probably still won’t believe me.

"Who Am I" is back!

2008-10-15T08:46:00.000-04:00

Once again you have a chance to prove your superior ability to identify roughly drawn portraits of people you usually don't find grouped together. I will post your wrong answers so others don't repeat your mistakes (aren't I helpful) but will hold on to correct answers till someone gets ALL THREE right.

As always, points will be awarded, which is important because the commissioner just ruled that points from "who am I " can be redeemed in your fantasy football league.

Leif Erikson

2008-10-07T20:23:00.000-04:00

Public Service Announcement

2008-09-27T09:07:00.000-04:00

ATTENTION!

I just realized that Halloween comes right BEFORE the presidential election. This means parties and costumes. Let me say this now while you are all planning your costumes...

IT IS NOT OK FOR YOU TO WEAR "BLACK FACE"

No it does not matter if he is running for president. If you want to be Barack Obama buy a mask. This is not negotiable. No it is not "unfair" or political correctness gone too far. Just give up the idea now or buy your mask. Ask questions if you need to, just put the makeup back in the drawer.

(artist, Ryan Muldowney)

Criminal Record

2008-09-26T07:53:00.000-04:00

Wednesday night we had a church youth activity at my house. We played a Jeopardy game centered on our church's standards.

The category was "Sabbath Day Observance"

The answer was "when looking for a job you should tell your potential employer {blank}"

(the answer is, "we don't work on Sunday)

In an effort to win a twelve year old boy quickly blurted out "Your criminal record!!!"

As people laughed not only he, but his teammates as well, looked around wondering what was funny.

This kid has never commit ed a crime in his life.

You can't tell me this kid has the same opportunities I had at his age.

Johann Sebastian Bach

2008-09-24T16:19:00.000-04:00

I figured this was appropriate after my last post.

Football is the answer to all our problems, answering the question in my last post.

2008-09-22T23:25:00.000-04:00

Football is the answer to all our problems.

Don’t laugh, I’m serious.

Now I’m not just talking about sports in general but this specific one. I will concede that all sports, well most sports, have merit. It is good to learn that sometimes you win, and sometimes you lose. Winning takes work, or luck, or a weaker opponent. Sometimes you just aren’t good enough, sometimes the referee robs you, and sometimes you are just unprepared.

There are rules. If you choose to disobey the rules penalties are enforced, unless they don’t catch you, but someone always notices.

Sports are proactive, or reactive, but always active. Doing is required. You have to play. There are those who watch, and they are often loud and always have an opinion, but someone has to play.

All these things apply to sport and life. These merits have made room in our academic institutions and our children’s schedules. Long live sports!

But if I was told all sports must go but one, I would need no time for deliberation. The answer is clear. If I had to choose one sport with which to instruct our youth, one sport with the most to offer, one sport with which to craft our world, it would be Football!

First, before you start, I’ll address the violence. Yes, football is rough, so is life. I am not fundamentally against spanking kids, but I’m doing everything I can not to. It is hard not to because I know that sometimes a quick smack in the mouth teaches a lesson quicker than a sermon, 5 time outs, and forfeited toys. The problem is I don’t want my children associating smacks in the mouth with me. That’s what is great about football. There are strict rules governing the use of violence. There is room to exert it with everything you have, but only while in control. When you loose control there are the most severe of penalties… you get thrown out of the game.

There are pads to protect the player. In a violent sport there must be some sort of protection but pads also change the game. What my rugby playing brothers don’t understand is that football pads are covered in plastic and metal. Plastic and metal are much harder than muscle and bone. Pads allow a player to play past the usual physical limitations. Without pads a player could not run full speed directly into another player, who is also running directly at him, exploding into the contact rather than bracing for it. The pads remove hesitation and fear, allowing the player to give it their all without inhibitions. The result is much more explosive collisions, more intensity, and more violence.

Laws, family, and society work as pads for life. All can both protect us and change the nature of the game we are playing. The more padding life or society gives us, the harder we can play without fear of pain or penalty. If we abuse this padding the consequences are also amplified.

Football, more than any other sport, must be coached. Someone is calling the plays, directing the game, orchestrating the whole show. Every play is choreographed. There are so many moving parts that must work in concert with each other, that the one moving the chess pieces must be heeded. A player must learn to take instruction, feedback, and criticism, not only in daily practices but during the heat of battle as well. Player and coach must learn to communicate and wills must bend. Someone must lead and someone must call the shots. A player who wants to play must learn that performance gets the coaches attention. If a player wants to get noticed, wants to contribute, they must gain the coaches favor. Some coaches judge solely on skill and performance, others on personality and family. A player must learn that if the coach is running the show, the player must accommodate. Most all programs have multiple coaches. A player must learn to listen to different coaches and use these coaches as advocates in their favor with the head coach. Each individual must not only perform individually, but gain favor of layers of others, be they teammates or coaches, and at the end of it, all must work together to win.

Society works the same way. Jobs, governments, neighborhoods, and families all possess layers of hierarchy and networks that must be maneuvered and navigated.

Unlike basketball, baseball, or even hockey, no one player can completely dominate a game. There is no real Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods of football. In basketball all players are more or less doing the same activities, dribbling, passing, shooting, defending. Some may perform these tasks with slightly different roles but essentially a center and a guard are both dribbling, passing, shooting, and defending. There are some players who do all these things so well they can render the rest of the team secondary or even inconsequential. A pitcher can throw a no-hitter. A goalie can amazingly shut down an entire team… not in football.

Each position in football has a unique purpose, and all must be done well to have success. A quarterback is useless without good lineman, and the two positions are absolutely nothing alike. Receivers and linebackers are nothing alike but both are essential. The different positions are so varied that they require players with a staggeringly wide range of skills and abilities. Some positions require obscene size and strength, others speed and agility. Some take aggression and reaction, others vision and cunning.

To win a team and its players must learn to perform individual tasks while also relying on others to simultaneously perform completely different tasks. You must balance individual responsibility and trust in others, as well as a system. A player must learn to trust someone who is nothing like them; doing things they can in no way do themselves. Leaders may emerge and weaknesses may become apparent, but to win all must adjust and work together.

This lesson, above all else, can make the world a better place. We must not all be alike in the world, nor should we be. Difference is good, even essential. The key is learning to appreciate that no one position, or person, can do without the other and all are important.

As long as we are all on the same team.

We perform our roles with varying levels of success, while others do the same. We win, we lose, and our actions have consequences for both ourselves and others. The way we play in life has rewards and sometimes pain. How much better prepared is a person, or a society, that has practiced living while young, before it really matters? How much better prepared is someone who has learned what it takes to win, or lost and still got up to play again?

Our world and our society are fraught with problems. We have racism, starvation, greed, and selfishness. Irresponsibility, laziness, nepotism, and politics are everywhere.

What is to be done?

Let’s play football!

Social Studies class got it all wrong.

2008-09-16T21:47:00.000-04:00

Have you ever read a recipe, planned a great meal, followed the directions, and had it turn out terrible? There is always a chance the recipe was a good recipe but somewhere along the line you messed it up, forgot something, or maybe you just don’t understand the kitchen well enough to cook well.

That sums up my education of the civil rights movement.

The civil rights movement was not love and peace, it was rights.

It wasn’t, “please stop hating me and let me sit next to you on the bus”, it was, “stop hanging people and let me have a job.” How did I miss that? I was paying attention. I was genuinely interested. I was taught the civil rights movement had something to do with everyone getting along. I thought it was about the content of our character and not judging others. MLK and the freedom riders won that war. Mission accomplished right?

So why are black people still angry?

The fundamental misunderstanding was, and I think still is, about how bad it really was for black people. The problem wasn’t not being accepted, few people thought that even possible. The problem was feeding your kids. The problem was owning your own house for a fair price. The problem was being able to walk down the street without fear of violence. The problem was a justice system that assumed your guilt and took very little effort to protect you.

Hurt feelings were trivial compared to a lynching. Hurt feelings are trivial compared to working hard every day while knowing you will never reach a level of comfort.
I was not fully taught how bad it was AFTER slavery and I don’t think I’m the only one.

I don’t think I’m the only one because I still hear people, when confronted with a complaining black person (on TV of course), say “slavery was over 150 years ago, get over it.”
The majority of all white people were relatively untouched by the racial tension of those days. Most of us remain relatively untouched (outside the media) by black people PERIOD.

Do we really think people marched, got arrested, and risked their life over a seat on a bus?

That was the battle, we passed some laws, then what?

Do we really expect “them” to like “us” just like that?
Sure it may have been 40 years since then but what has anyone done since then to encourage black people to like white people? Did we suddenly turn nice and accepting? Have we (whites) done enough by simply refraining from burning crosses? Yes that is a fair question because THAT was the problem, not just dirty water fountains.

Serious question… Who out there is, or has ever, done anything proactive to promote a healthy social relationship between black and white?

(you may be surprised by my answer)

How did you get where you are?

2008-09-11T14:14:00.000-04:00

We tend to think we get what we have because we worked hard and acted responsibly... or the reverse may be true. Sure we may have done those things, but is that why any of us really are where we are?

Did you go to college?

You studied and worked hard to get into and through college. How did you know the entrance process and requirements? When did you realize or think college was an option for you? Who placed those ideas in your head? Did you know other people who were, or had been, in college? Did you do all your homework on your own or did some one “help” you? I don’t mean help as in what is four plus four but as in, “get in there and do your homework!” How many of your friends, or people in the neighborhood, finished high school?

How many times did you or your family move from k-12?

How did you pay for school?

How did you get your current job? Did you just walk up and apply or did you know someone? Did you know anyone in a similar industry before you started working there?

Did you ever get in trouble with the law growing up? What were the consequences? Who helped you get out of, or into trouble?

The answers to all these questions may or may not play a large role in where or who you are today… you tell me?

After answering these questions consider that the likely answers change depending on your race (and other factors, mainly economic) and ask why.

Is it all up to us, or does our situation play a large role? How did those before us get into these situations?

Man on the Moon

2008-09-08T14:55:00.000-04:00

1910 South Pole Expedition

2008-09-05T10:24:00.000-04:00

What Do we Really Know About "Them"?

2008-09-02T15:30:00.000-04:00

What do you really know about them?

Some time ago I read an article about local high school graduation ceremonies. This article was a little bit of a rant rather than report. It was the smaller neighborhood paper so I expected nothing too ground breaking. What I did get was a great example of culture clashes still happening today.

The ceremonies in question were from the local Catholic schools. The Catholic school system here is the most viable option for those wishing to escape a drowning, and burning, public system, as opposed to the unaffordable ivy prep style private schools that also dot the city.

Where else would a Catholic graduation be held than in a cathedral? Makes sense.

The article was about the behavior of some “types” of parents and families. These people were designated as “newcomers”, a different “class”, and not “from” the usual neighborhood. What was not stated, but is true and obvious is that these people are black.

The behavior in question, and being complained about, was; shouting, clapping, cheering, and standing up. It was pointed out how inappropriate behavior this is for both a church and a ceremony such as this. The writer was deeply and vocally offended.

Has this person ever been to a black church?

What is appropriate to one is not always appropriate to another.
The writer saw these actions as inconsiderate at best and more deeply disrespectful.

Was it?

Did the writer consider that in the churches these “newcomers” attend, if you like, or approve of something you immediately let them know? Did the writer consider that in this culture NOT showing approval or excitement when one should be excited, is seen as disrespectful? Did the writer know anything of the black church’s association of spirit, progression, and making a “joyful noise”? I’m sure in the minds of these newcomers they were acting as expected and as is appropriate.

Now the inverse is true.

If you enter a new place or culture you should take some time to learn the ins and outs. Did the newcomers stop to think of what a Catholic would see as appropriate behavior in a catholic cathedral? Did they know or care what the “others” thought was appropriate?

The two cultures, black and white, are different. These differences are OK.

Who if anyone is paying attention?

Why is no one taking the time to educate each other on these things, or are they but no one wants to listen?

No, in stead we just watch, get offended, and talk about whats wrong with "them."

Rulon

2008-09-01T07:18:00.001-04:00

Frank Sinatra

2008-08-29T15:03:00.000-04:00

What we learn from Malibu's Most Wanted

2008-08-25T22:18:00.000-04:00

What We Learn From “Malibu’s Most Wanted”.

Let’s be honest, there are a lot of things we know, only from movies.

There are lots of places I have never been to, events I did not witness, and characters I never met. Still, I had my picture taken with the Rocky statue, if I ever go to “Nam” everything I see will have to pass through an Apocalypse Now filter, and thanks to the Power of One, I consider myself an expert on South Africa.

This being said, there are few things that irk me the way a nice interracial relationship drama or love story. Why? Do I have thin skin? Are the cultural contrasts off limits in my mind? No, it’s the unavoidable, predictable, and wrong, instructional section of all these movies.
For example:

Chris Rock’s dancing old rich people in Down to Earth with the resulting old lady’s “this party is off the hizzle!”

Again, Chris Rock in Head of State, when he finally goes off script, takes off his jacket, and starts preaching. Of course all the white folk start breaking into hilariously uncharacteristic “Amens!”

Bullworth, when Warren Beatty sees the light, and starts rapping everything.

And worst of all, Save the Last Dance…pretty much the whole movie.
This one is the worst because it isn’t trying to be funny.
There is an “iconic” scene where the black guy is teaching the white girl how to dance like a black person. They start by sitting in chairs and the guy says something along the lines of, “if you want to hang with us you can’t sit like that. You have to slouch and loosen up.”
This begins Julia Stile’s education on how to get black people to accept you. This is done by wearing puffy coats and beanies, slouching and strutting, and of course a more affective bump n’ grind on the dance floor. This works brilliantly in this, and all the others, as the races all start to get along when we finally learn to act like the stereotypes of the other.

Moral of the story, all black people say “wassup dawg” and white people are stiff and nerdy.

Enter Malibu’s Most Wanted.” A rich white boy with identity issues, refuses to act white.

I LOVED this show. Why? Moral of the story is act like yourself… even if that means rapping about when people are like all up on your private beach, yo.

Even better… one of the best ever on the issue, is Finding Forrester. Old white guy author, young black kid who plays ball, and they navigate learning about each other beautifully.

One of the worst days of my life was walking into a record store in L.A. and the Idaho farm boy I was with approached the store clerk with, “wassup sista? Where the [????] at?” He was serious.

I wanted to die, and I blame Save the Last Dance.

Yerba Mate'

2008-08-25T06:40:00.000-04:00

Answers

2008-08-21T16:19:00.000-04:00

Beginners luck Cappy